The Valley
by Killjoy Queen
Summary: Having run away from protection to find something he lost, Ellis discovers he will have to make a choice - between his friends, or his future happiness. Set after the events of the Parish. Rated M for violence, language and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've been dying to write a fic about this for ages; as it's maddening not knowing what happens to them all. I just thought I ought to point out a few things for reasons of clarification: **

**1. Any surname speculations are entirely my own (what I basically thought suited the characters I gave them to). Valve never designated surnames for some reason, perhaps for ambiguity, with the exception of Bill Overbeck.**

**2. For reasons I'm about to go into, the town of Rayford for the purpose of this story is set on the coast, south of Savannah. I realise that L4D Wiki states that it's technically in Griffin county, but, going from the dialogue from The Sacrifice, in my opinion, it makes much more sense if it's there (and still in Georgia). **

**3. Any relationships between characters are also based on my own judgement. I have tried to keep in character for them all the best I can. It's up to you to tell me whether I have succeeded in doing so. **

**4. I apologise for how sporadic my chapter sizes are.  
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**Anyways, I hope you enjoy this as much as I currently am writing it. Know it's a lot to have submitted all at once (case anyone's wondering how a ten chapter story just sprung out of nowhere) but felt I wanted to get the bit that drags on a little out of the way and done, so the good stuff can begin :)**

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><p>"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil..."<p>

- Coach, Psalm 23:4

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><p><em>Glusbbshhhhsh...<em>

_Glubbbashsssh... _

_These noises, even in the haze. _

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><p><em>They had made it to the island. It was all over. <em>

_They were finally safe. _

_The beach is warm and welcoming. Lying down, it feels like there is nobody else in the world. No fear, no tragedy – no more death. _

_(Cannot move)_

_(Why is it so hard to)_

_(Help)_

_(Oh God please help)_

_(I'm trapped)_

_Uhnnnn... Uhnnnnnn..._

_(Breathe) _

_(I'm choking I'm choking I can feel it in my lungs)_

_(Breathe you have to)_

_(BREATHE)_

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><p><em>Moaning sounds echo in the distance made by unspeakable creatures. There is, unbeknownst to them, a sort of hell on Earth. Those monsters are, in some ways, luckier than those who have to live. Nobody can help them. They are lost in their own little worlds; feeling pain sure, but certainly no more than they are capable of inflicting, which, as demonstrated by the countless bodies strewn over the muddy Georgian ground, is a great deal and then some. <em>

_But they don't know, either. They have no fear, no conscience or use of their higher brain functions and there is nobody who can help them. The ones that do suffer are the ones that know._

_Some short way out into the Atlantic Ocean, not far from the harbour, there is a gasping noise; too quiet for the creatures to hear; with the main noises in their head being the respective grunts and squeals of their kind. A hand squabbles above water for a moment, reaching for something,_anything_ – and, with some luck; clenches onto part of a boardwalk; most likely washed ashore from the strong currents that had come from the stormy weather shrouding most of the south. There are no seagulls in the harbour anymore, or other birds; no familiar noises for the person short of air to tread water closer to – only the grunts to symbolise the inevitable danger ashore. _

_A young woman's head emerges from the water; eyes ringed red from exhaustion, but still coloured a deep green that distinguished her from the rest. Human green – uncorrupted, unchanged – untouched. She is breathing, but shallowly; rapid gasps entering and leaving as sharply as the pain at her temple. Her escape had been but a dream. She touches her head gingerly and feels what she feared; viscous blood staining her slender, pianist's fingers. She looks at them and thinks of things to motivate her to stay alive; how she had wasted their grace on videogames in her college dorm, alone. Would she try and teach herself if she got through all this madness – this shit?_

_As she reaches full consciousness; closer and closer still, so does the pain increase. It burns inside her head, so much so that she sobs; the corners of her vision staining red. She feels in her pockets below the water for pain pills with her free hand or adrenaline and comes up with nothing. In despair she realises that the water must have claimed them; taking them so that they would be useless, spent – like the way they had treated, almost, the old man's death at the bridge a day or so before. She feels a pang of guilt and longing for the man of whom she had become so close to, nearly as a daughter over the weeks they'd travelled south and she retches. Sure, they had been running away at the time and it she knows it was very human of her to block out feelings of emotional trauma with jokes or silence, but now the feelings are coming and they are vast. _

_Still a way off from the shore; she drifts in her misery – a tiny island of fading hope in a vast sea where the odds were so against those who were still fighting. She knew nobody would come for her anymore. Why should they? They were safe; they saw her fall in, head knocked to shit from where it struck the side of the boat as she fell –_

_She gasps a little as the memories flood back and zones out again for a little while; the world turning from red-tinted to black. _

_When she reawakens; arms still gripping the driftwood holding her afloat, she has come very close indeed to the shore, twenty metres or so, give or take. She knows that it's only a matter of time – soon, she knows that she will have to face them. Bleeding, weapons gunked up from the polluted sea-water and no medicine or company meant that at that point, she is feeling very alone and very, very helpless._

_What could she do? _

_Could she die here, after she had gotten so far? _

_Would she stand a chance at all?_

_(This one time, my buddy Keith repaired a combine harvester for his Pa to drive to cut his crops and, like, he didn't know that there was gonna be a zombie apocalypse and shit, so he used it instead of mowing corn, to mow down zombies. His Pa was dang prouda him, till he turned and it was blade-time. Made Keith sad and all but he said that it's what his Pa would've wanted; to go down like his Granddaddy did in the nineteen thirties...) _

_She smiles to herself; thinking of the odd tales the strange young man on the bridge had yammered on about to his buddies in his thick Georgian accent and felt a piece of herself come back again. She most likely would die and that was a fact that she could not doubt. But she sure as hell's going to go out with a sense of humour about it. _

_As she drifts closer towards land; able now to put her feet on the sandy floor she thinks wistfully of things she wishes she had said and how she now never could. She could see them in the distance – eyes reflecting light even though there was little in the heavy rain; their breaths thick and laboured. In the north where they had come from; many had most likely starved to death – but down here, the spread is fresh and rampant amongst the citizens; the swampy place she had come through ripe with disease and the stubborn, relentless lives of the damned – _

_An idea springs to her mind as she takes the first step or two onto the beach. A crazy idea that she's just about nutty enough to try. _

_Could she maybe, just possibly... pretend to be them? _

_The visibility of the place is poor, her torch is broken and it would be difficult to smell her in such stormy weather. They are more aggressive amongst each other if they are provoked; but then and only then. If she just kept to the shadows, could she maybe make it back to the closest safe spot; with its heavy steel door? Her party had not spent long there; knowing that they were close to where they needed to be, so food 'ought' to be plentiful. She could exist there; curling up in her skin until the nightmare was over for her; by any means necessary._

_She'd started studying for a degree in Film and Psychology before all of this. The Minor would be a pretty sure test to see if all that time and hard work was truly worth it. She stifles a hysterical laugh which comes out as a few, fairly convincing muffled snorts; thinking of all the times she'd spent holed up in that dorm watching those stupid horror movies and takes a very deep breath. She spies tracks on the muddy ground; a floral pattern recognisable as her own and realises that it would be less of a search than she first imagined to find the hideout along the shore, though it does very little as a means of consoling her fear._

_(It's two miles just two miles just)_

_She closes her eyes for a brief moment – and lets her body go slack. _

_(Here goes)_


	2. Chapter 2

Some way off in a secluded part of Louisiana, not too far from New Orleans; the city more isolated still with its hordes of the mindless fenced off by a bridge destroyed by the somewhat dismantled United States Military Personnel, the few humans in the area that had survived the plague of the twenty-first century had built themselves a 'safe' place – a comfort blanket in the dark that consisted of corrugated iron barracks and barbed wire instead of wool and fibres. As understandable; there were not at all many – around thirty army personnel, soldiers and staff – and four specks; colourful against the small handful of green, who were the immune four who had stood against all odds and lived to tell the tale. Reports had come in from other camps like such coming into contact with the so called fortunate immune; but the majority of the camps had, after only a brief time, lost all communications. In this small place; where ammunition, morale and supplies were running low, it seemed as if it were only a matter of time until the same happened to them. All that remained was the callous, cocky attitude and claims of invincibility from the soldiers and, for the four who made it out alive; banter as a means to an end – purpose being to keep their sanity straight.

One of them, the youngest and most reckless by far, was having a very difficult time doing just that. Since they had been picked up a week ago (had it been that long?) he had not slept a wink – or barely spoken a word – since the initial celebrations at the event of their salvation. Now that it had passed; he had spent most of his time in his bunk; alone in a corridor of metal and dirt, looking up into the curved steel ceiling and wrestling with his thoughts. There were many of them, and they came every day and night – not a single one of them being good.

The young man, however, felt angry more than anything and with his anger, he found frustration. Frustration, because he felt so alone in how he was feeling. Anger, because he felt the servicemen who had taken them into protective custody had mistreated his peers – and him too. The men were not mechanics, or engineers. When he had asked to take a look around the complex; he had gotten nothing but a snort and a low, smooth voice explaining how that wouldn't be necessary and that everything had been taken care of, regardless of the number of times he had explained his mechanic's background. He could tell what he was thinking by the way the man had looked back at him so curtly; thoughts of his supposed ignorance, childish optimism and country-boy foolishness.

For, despite his goofy demeanour, jokes and sometimes obnoxious attitude; Ellis was not stupid. He knew that and be damned the others if they didn't. They had taken it in so easily, almost dreamily at first, that they had been rescued and seemed to think they would never have to live the nightmare – that had ravaged their days and nights for a length of time that seemed eons longer than it must really have been – again. He could see that had changed now. Dinners had become thinner, less plentiful. The water in the showers; once warm and soothing on their bodies, was discolouring every day. And all the while, the screams outside the walls were getting louder and louder, closer and closer, every day and night. If he were to close his eyes and try to dream, he would be 'there' again. He did not want to be 'there' again. It frightened him more than anything he ever imagined could and if he thought of himself being taken unawares; ensnared by something alone in the night and hauled away screaming, he would shake and sweat for hours on end; until a brief moment of uneasy rest came, the images coming before his closed eyes and then them snapping open, blue-grey and terrified.

Sometimes, he sobbed. More often, he screamed; endless cries into the night until a group of people rushed in and injected him with something; a cooling liquid that filled his veins and made him forget, for a little while.

But he could not forget forever. The next day, which had been the routine for four out of the seven days he had spent here so far; he had gotten out of the shower in some semi-conscious bubble and wiped the steam from the mirror. His body made him remember; with its many scars, scratches, acid burns and bites. The same chill would always come back; filling the small cubicle and he would often double over, gasping until Nick or Coach, often being the case, knocked on his door and asked him to either shut up or what his problem was. "Sorry" or "Nothing" were becoming unconvincing since it was happening so often. Soon they would ignore him entirely and he would be forgotten; downcast, like a doll in a rich kid's toybox. He imagined laying there and feeling helpless, himself only as company; his plastic body broken in several places where love had become violent and then ungrateful.

Would Ro forget him, too? Was that he was getting on everyone's nerves so much that he was forcing them away? Now that they were apparently safe; did that mean that the relationships between them all were gone or going; fading away like cheap ink on an old page?

Or was he just being crazy?

Ellis sighed and turned over in his cot; his stomach rumbling deeply from lack of food. The chef standee had advised them all earlier about the evening's culinary delights – canned beans, canned wieners, canned fruit cocktail for dessert and, to drink, beer. Beer was plentiful; one thing that appealed to Ellis and, since they were trying to save water, drinking whatever had been found and rationed from nearby supermarkets had been encouraged.

But nothing could change the fact that today was Sunday and no matter how impossible Ellis knew it to be; she being gone forever, he wanted so badly to stroll out and find some way to the old country house in suburban Savannah where he shared, every week without fail, Sunday dinners with his Mother. Two months ago, she had served him a roast leg of lamb which they had shared together amid laughter and comments about Ellis's manners, him failing entirely to pause to give thanks to the Lord before eating. Manners were something that Ellis appreciated, in contrast to his many peers (Keith of course included), but he did not apply them to food.

He thought of how it had smelled then, with its succulent aroma of mint and rosemary; compared to the frankfurters he could smell cooking in the kitchen – and helplessly burst into tears.

She was gone. They were all gone. Ellis had not seen her die, which he was thankful for, but he knew she had. It was a feeling inside him. His Mother was of the Catholic faith with a strong belief in the sanctity of life; but he truly felt in his gut that, with her strong views and wit, she would rather die than live and have lost her mind. He swallowed a large lump; lips now sticky and made a few hacking sounds. Outside, he heard something grunt in the distance, as if in response.

Ellis saw the door open and turned to face away from it. He didn't want anybody to see him, as he was. Or rather, he felt he couldn't; as the need for comfort, a maternal substitute in the cold, lonely room in which he lay curled, was pathetically powerful. How naive he felt he was; how wonderfully young, vulnerable and stupid.

Fuck, how _much_ he felt he needed a drink.

A glass with a bottle of Miller balanced inside it clinked melodically as Rochelle set it in front of Ellis on the table by his bed; which bounced as she sat down. He looked up to her and smiled a little; feeling guilty about what he'd earlier thought. She smiled back and stroked his arm; her eyes caring, natal and pitying.

Ellis sat up, quiet after the initial acknowledgement of her presence, opened the bottle crudely with his teeth and started to glug it straight; the grinding and slurping making her wince. The brew was lukewarm and flat; uncouth in comparison to how it had been served fresh from the ice cooler at Duke's bar (his local), but he still felt it tasted sweet. He had needed it and he was grateful for it and when he slammed down the empty bottle onto the table with a chinking sound, the first thing he did was to throw explanations aside and hug Rochelle. He felt her body tense uneasily before she reciprocated kindly; pensive, but far from uncaring.

"Hey, hey..." She soothed gently, rubbing Ellis's back.

He let go after a little while and slumped over; his head in his hands. His face was sore from the interrupted, embarrassing sobbing session. How come the others got along just fine? He'd never seen them cry. He could understand Nick, being a mainly heartless bastard who got a kick out of making_ other_ people cry (curious really, because they got on pretty well, so he thought) but Ro and Coach?

"How d'ya do it, Ro?" He asked; voice muffled slightly as he spoke virtually into his crotch, still not over the shame.

"Do what, sweetie?"

"Y'know... not let things get to you. All I've done since I've gotten here is think about things and I'ma tellin' you, it's making me go mad."

She took a deep breath.

"I just... try not to think about them."

"How, though?" He asked desperately.

"I just have to," She replied, "I think about anything else except what's outside. I'm terrified that if and when I do think about it and let everything that's happened sink in, I'm going to end up going to a dark place in my mind where nobody can reach me again, no matter how hard they try."

Ellis nodded, eyeing the empty bottle distractedly and felt rude for doing so. He couldn't help it. It was a reminder to him and to an extent, to them all, how far away home was. Rochelle saw him do so and misinterpreted it for him being far away in his head about another subject, which, admittedly, was another cause of his current feelings that he had not wanted to think about, even to himself.

"It's her, isn't it?" She asked, putting her hand on his shoulder, making Ellis jolt; a seething feeling seeping into his gut.

"Who?" He said, casually, pretending to have only half heard so she'd drop it; but Rochelle, being a newsreader and interviewer, was a better judge of his character than he had perhaps thought.

"That girl on the bridge, what's her name –"

" – Zoey."

"Yeah, that's it."

Ellis sighed. He supposed it needed to come out sooner or later, but Christ, if he hadn't embarrassed himself enough by now...

"I can't stop thinking about her."

Rochelle rolled her eyes, not mockingly, but exasperatedly – and Ellis knew what was coming. The Lecture. They had all had one; the three of them who had been her companions and hell, she loved giving them. It wasn't because she was mean spirited, but because she tended to like controlling things at times and felt very uneasy if she could see that someone was going downhill with no chance of stopping.

Which, of course, Ellis was.

"Why, Ellis?" She started; getting out her listing hand, which she used to count out reasons as to 'why things couldn't happen' as the patronising tone came forth, "I mean, I understand sweetie. We've all been there – and I know it's hard as hell right now and I don't want to break your spirits honey, or anything, but –"

Then the list came and boy, what a list it was. Ellis droned in and out of it; thinking of precisely the thing he shouldn't have been as she ticked off each of her well thought-out reasons – an explanation to go with each – and each one of them being cynical as anything. First came the fact that he was young and he'd not had much experience (true, but a little hurtful since he'd never really talked about that part of his personal life with any of them), the fact that he was an unbounded optimist at both the best and worst of times (somewhat ironic because right now, he couldn't have felt any worse about the situation they were in), the fact that she could be anywhere – anywhere at all – in the country right now (or, she said, God forbid and I'm sorry for saying it, even dead), the fact that communications were limited so contact would be difficult, even perhaps futile, the fact that, since both Zoey and her were both women; the Anthropic Principle (whatever that was) suggested that there must be more out there or else, she said, you men wouldn't even bother trying...

The fact that...

The fact that...

As she finished, out of breath and with better peace of mind; Ellis had drifted into a state that was stubbornly, comfortably numb. Upon seeing his face, which must have looked perhaps dazed and a little strained to her, she apologised quickly (to which he smiled politely but not really warmly), hugged him, told him she was looking out for him and left; the same look of pity reflecting on her features as she closed the door behind her, presumably going to the galley, mess or whatever to eat her frankfurters with the other soldiers, Nick and Coach.

He thought of how feminine such manly men were acting; with their cooking and their manners toward Rochelle, her indeed being, unsurprisingly, the only female amongst them and laughed to himself, almost maniacally, for a little while. He shut up, however, when he thought he heard mumbling in the outside hall. Last thing he wanted to happen here was for everyone to panic that one of those 'back-humpers' had snuck into the place somehow and was going for a destructive ride. He hated those things and had nail-marks on his shoulders from where several of the fuckers had clamped down; laughing like crazy as they'd rode him like a goddamn horse into some terrible trouble...

He hated them all. It still seemed like something ridiculous, like from some horror B-movie; that such creatures actually _existed_. But they did and they were everywhere; a huge, throbbing pink wall that stood between him and what he was pretty sure was his one true shot at happiness left in this world.

Ellis thought of how cliché and stupid it was; about how little he knew her and then how it didn't matter. He had wanted to know her – and it had only been time that had prevented that from happening. He thought about how it had been that she was the only girl his age left that he had ever seen since everything had begun as a cause for his emotions; but knew already that he'd have most likely acted exactly the same, had he met her in a park, on the street, or, even some damned Dairy Queen. He'd have not been able to say a straight word to her then either and, most likely following their brief, embarrassing encounter, gone on about her to Keith or even Dave about his feelings and dreams – of a flyaway, boyish wishful thinking quality.

She was beautiful and, love or not (of which he hoped to establish in his head, as at the time, he naively thought it _had_ been) he'd felt something for that girl he'd never felt for anyone else – and crushes were something of which Ellis had experienced his fair share. He thought about how she looked, how she had spoken to him – poised and delicate; far from the valley girl drawl commonplace amongst the girls in Savannah. He thought of how much he had wanted to somehow climb up there and touch her face; or those small hands that clutched a gun so professionally – feminism remaining unchanged regardless of the scars and gunpowder that stained her lovely white skin. He felt a deep craving; a longing that was monstrous to him, made worse from the reminder of how much he missed home and clenched his knees close to his chest; staring into the dark blindly.

He thought of Polly, then, for the first time really since he'd gotten over their breakup.

Ellis had been twenty when he'd met Polly – she, seventeen – when she was doing a repeat year of high school because her grades had dropped due to 'personal problems'. 'Personal problems' was a phrase commonly used by Savannites and meant, in simple terms, something that had happened which was nobody's business and should not be pried into; but this common courtesy was, of course, nearly always ignored by the town gossips and 'nosies', of which there were plenty about.

Ellis, however, was not one of them and wasn't big on asking personal questions to anybody; him expecting the same in return. He was halfway through his basic training and was working with his friend Keith in an auto-repair shop in the suburbs as he studied for the other half. It was hard work and his boss was a certified asshole most of the time – a large, short-tempered man named John Sully ('Mister' to him and Keith) – but Ellis had never heard him say a word against his work and that made him feel pretty proud, since (and he knew it was mean-spirited to think so, but hell, he couldn't help it) Johnny was always going on at Keith for some little problem or issue; whether it be failing to screw in a spark plug properly, having done a leaky oil change or whatever.

Polly, as a matter of fact, had driven up to the repair shop for just that reason (aptly named Sully's Motors) to have a right yell at Johnny about the work that'd been done on her dad's car; which would have been most unlucky for Keith, had Johnny been around when she called by. But Johnny had gone for lunch at the time to the sub-sandwich shop over the road (one of Ellis's personal favourite eateries in the city), so, when Polly came by, storming over the dusty shop floor in her shiny red, peep-toe heels and skinny jeans, she was understandably pissed to find that nobody was around.

It was an unwritten rule between Ellis and Keith that when Johnny wasn't around; no work got done until he returned, so, at the time of Polly's arrival, the both of them had been sat on the shop roof; easily accessible from a ladder round the back and were enjoying their lunch under the warm spring sun. The both of them had been drinking cold ones bought for them by Keith's older brother Mike; their usual boozehound and felt, as youths often do, on top of the world. Customers on a Sunday afternoon, the repair shop being in a somewhat religious part of town, didn't come by all that often, so when they both heard a car pulling into the garage and angry footsteps and calls, the first thing they'd both thought was that Johnny'd come back early. In a panic, they'd both rushed to get down the ladder; Keith falling down half the distance and landing hard on his ass. Ellis remembered laughing _his_ ass off at Keith as he climbed down; not noticing the clickity-click of footsteps – first growing louder and then grinding to a halt.

"Excuse me," an irritated female voice said, causing Ellis to look round and Keith to stand up, still rubbing his ass.

He saw her feet first, before his eyes met hers; a deep shade of brown and immediately felt embarrassed, rubbing the back of his head humbly.

"Sorry Miss; forgive us. We don't get a lot of calls for work on Sundays and we reckoned you was our boss."

"How flatterin'," she said sarcastically, but Ellis could see she was trying not to smile. He smiled at her, though; broadly and pleasantly (so he thought) and remembered thinking to himself, as he could tell Keith was also from the googly-eyed expression on his face: _not bad – not at all_.

He thought that the next time she came back, and the next; both times making the song 'Legs' by ZZ Top play in his head, and he apparently also hummed it, as Keith pointed out, while he worked long after she'd left. He'd checked the problem both of those times and it had worked fine without any need for repairs – of which he'd explained to her twice – and she'd driven off, smiling but sounding a little disappointed. He was thankful when Keith lost his patience and told him what was _really_ going on that evening over a glass of root beer in the mall's soda fountain. Ellis had been talking about her to him; a little dreamily as he always did girls he found attractive and Keith, wiping the foam from his light beard, had slammed his stein down impatiently.

"For God's sake, dude," Keith had exclaimed, "Ain't it fuckin' obvious? You've been drivin' us mad for weeks!"

Ellis had shook his head in response bewilderedly; so Keith explained in a few, short sharp words – sounding more than a little jealous as he did so. Ellis remembered how much his face had heated up at the time and how he'd felt like a royal jackass. Had his self esteem been that bad? How come he'd never really thought about it – only wished it, like an idiot? The worst thing though that came to his head was that it had been a missed opportunity. He reckoned she'd probably never come back now, having lost persistence with the boyish mechanic who had nothing but a pickup truck, a baseball cap and a jumpsuit to his name (his uniform); while she went to high school, was in the drama club (shop-talk things that she'd told him) and her daddy drove a shiny new Chevrolet.

But a week later, she did; explaining to him with a flushed complexion how the problem hadn't gotten any better and how she was sorry to keep bothering him and how it really wasn't his fault and how it was her who kept blowing it, she was sure – and Ellis, on a spur of courage of which he had no idea where he'd gotten and had never had before or since – had cut her short and kissed her, hard, on her deep pink lips that tasted of cola Smackers. After they broke apart; out of breath and out of mind, Keith in the background cheering loudly but being ignored, he asked her if she wanted to go to the theme park with him next weekend ("Go in the evenin' it's nicer – two'o clock okay? I can pick y'up as it's a pretty long drive.") – and she said yes.

It was the first real date he'd had since high school – and even then, he didn't really count the Prom, where he'd gotten exceptionally drunk and lost his virginity to one of his best friends who'd liked him for ages; an act of which had hurt them both. He couldn't even remember doing it, even when he woke up next to her – naked as the day he was born and in the backstage of the auditorium at their school – from being poked in the back by the school janitor's brush. It had been an interesting thing to have to explain to the principal, who had been very kind indeed not to tell his Mother, as, she said, she liked him far too much as a student and knew that it had been a mistake that happens to everyone, once in their lives. Nonetheless, rules were rules and she'd suspended him and Annabelle (the other half, so to speak) for three weeks. He pretended to have flu; going so far as running through the chicken coop in his backyard (to try and catch the latest televised strain of H1N1) as to not tell his Mother – and he and Annabelle; after he had explained to her, sadly but carefully, how sorry he was but he had known her too long and too well to feel how she did – hadn't been the same since. He was still recovering from it, three years later – which was probably why he'd never really bothered with girls much; just his job – and realised that he really couldn't afford to screw this one up.

He picked her up at two on the dot that day, like he'd said; which was impressive for him because Ellis was normally phenomenally late for everything. He'd actually bothered to dress smartly as well; in baggy blue jeans, converses and his best shirt (the only one he owned without any oil or grease stains) and had also shined his matt-blue pickup as best he could. Since Keith had gone on at him about how he owed him a favour (since he'd pointed out to him that Polly had actually liked him in the first place), he'd caved in and agreed to take him to Whispering Oaks with him (Keith had a car of his own; a fourth generation one however – two of them disappearing due to a couple of far-fetched tales involving an uptown bridge over the river and the other literally off a cliff – but, regardless of how much he loved to drive it, he was wonderfully tight when it came to gas money); of which, when he'd called Polly up and explained the situation guiltily, she had been far more understanding than she ought to have been and even offered to bring one of her other girl pals along. Ellis accepted. He did, however, when he hung up, feel immediately bad for the poor girl who would essentially most likely be babysitting Keith for the night; but figured that, hey, Keith promised that he'd be on his best behaviour, they might like each other anyway and that he was allowed to be selfish, just this once.

Keith, on arrival, had driven, as expected, the poor girl (Sally) who had sat with him in the back to near madness; hyping on and on at her about how excited he was about the Screaming Oak (a coaster, of which a year or so later when Keith visited for his twenty-first birthday, not learning from the oncoming events of the current trip about showing off, would later curse), which was admittedly a hoot and a holler, but there was a point where it got a little sad. Ellis had to, for the sake of his conscience, mouth apologies to her unbeknownst to Keith for the entire trip, of which she appeared to exasperatedly accept. It irritated him a little, but no more than Keith usually did and besides; it had broken the tension up in the car, had there been any beforehand, just fine and he and Polly were talking easily, fluently and pleasantly to one another. She told him that she'd liked him ever since he saw him, which Ellis thought was sweet, so he told her in response, not wanting to seem too forward, that she looked really pretty and that he was glad she came with him; amidst further apologies about Keith's drawling, loutish presence gracing the back seat, 'entertaining' her friend. Sally shared a similar relationship with Polly as Keith did with Ellis, through both of them knowing each other since they could walk and being the best of friends. The only difference was that Polly and Sally had met at their ballet class (a pastime of which, she said, they'd both quit after a few weeks having no sense of poise) and Ellis had met Keith at the local park, after he'd been flattened by him when Keith took a dive into the sandbox. He told her so, which made her laugh and Ellis felt happier than he'd been in a good while.

He didn't get to kiss her again when they were there and thought he wouldn't get to for the rest of the night. Of course, they'd been close in the tunnel of love the place had (Ellis found it hard to believe how it was then to its current state) and they had been talking more and more and they'd moved closer to one another when, with a splash, a scream, a grinding noise and an unreasonable amount of gargling; Ellis had had to pull away and rescue Keith, being of course the gentleman of the evening, from drowning in sixteen inches of water. Keith had been showing off; balancing on the swan's neck while the rest of him dangled over the side and he'd slipped and fallen in – his bootlace catching a nail at the bottom of the swan, so he couldn't get up. Ellis acted more angrily than he really was, though. It just added to his list of Keith tales; a fair few of which he'd had no choice but to embarrass Keith about that evening and all of which he wished he had proof.

When he'd dropped Keith and Sally off (to whom Keith proposed to eight weeks later when drunk and ran off from the wedding the next April, of which, Polly told Ellis, Sally was truly quite thankful more than upset) he and Polly got their first time alone that night – that magical time where there's nothing but that pleasant quiet before the compliments about the night begin. Ellis felt those moments as they both sat satisfactorily in his beloved, albeit crappy pickup; all talked out and not a word needed.

"I – " She started.

"Me too."

That time, she kissed him first; her lips tasting of cherry this time rather than cola and Lord, she was passionate. He hadn't expected what she gave and how readily; the experience taking him pleasantly by surprise and felt himself, thankfully unnoticed by her, shamefully stir. He asked her if he could see her again next week – to which, she agreed – and, from then on in, they were inseparable for fourteen months.

Ellis had driven her away. He knew he had – it was always him who did – and he hated it. Was he going to let another slip again; when it could be his last chance?

He sat up; looking around. He had been so focussed in his own thoughts that he'd failed to notice that the other three had come in; had sat down together on a bunk at the foot of the room (which slept six comfortably but was just, for the moment, for the four of them) and had been talking amongst themselves quietly. Understandably, when Ellis sat up, they jolted.

"Jesus," Coach gasped, holding his chest, "You damn near gave me a heart attack, boy. We all thought you weren't right."

Ellis shrugged and stood up; smirking a little.

"Nail on the head, Coach. Ain't crazy though, if that's what y'all been worried about. Just been thinkin' shitty thoughts and they be putting me through somethin' awful."

Nick snorted loudly and Rochelle elbowed him in response. She went over to Ellis and stood by him; putting her hand on his shoulder.

"Have you had a think about everything?" She soothed, caressing him gently; a sensation he found pleasantly relaxing, in contrast to the question. He'd made up his mind about what he was going to do far beforehand, maybe since he'd gotten here – and he doubted, judging from the earlier low whispers and Rochelle's reaction to how he felt, that he was going to receive a standing ovation.

"I have – "

He paused for a second to think of his phrasing; of which he was not always tact. He would have to be, this time.

" – and I've decided this place ain't where I wanna be. There's somethin' out there that I need to at least try lookin' for, before I just let the military run my life."

There was an uncomfortable pause; where Ellis got a perhaps deluded taste of what he thought was their understanding. However, as the seconds ticked by and nobody spoke; he felt he had an indication of how deluded he had been. Rochelle looked angry, the others looked confused – and it was not the impression Ellis had hoped to give.

"Fine," he said angrily, breaking the silence, "Be like that. I was plannin' on goin' alone anyways."

The conman sat behind Coach shook his head.

"You're fucking crazy, you know that?" Nick said, snapping a thread on his bedraggled suit; his attachment to it outweighing his desire to wear the combat fatigues offered to them on entry, regardless of its dismal condition.

Ellis couldn't be bothered taking offense.

"Maybe," Ellis replied, "Or maybe I'm the only person who's noticed the shabby way the military are treatin' us, or the fact that everything seems to be getting thinner and darker these days. If we stay here, I've a feelin' something worse is gonna happen than could ever happen out there. There's a false sense of security happenin' 'round here and I don't like it one lil' bit."

"Ellis," Coach said, sounding very tired, "These are _trained_ military personnel –"

"So what?" Ellis exclaimed, "They haven't fought them face to face, hordes of them like we have. They're happy enough bombin' 'em from above and anythin' else that gets in their goddamn way, us included. Those planes, wherever they come from, are receding daily in number in all due to the Smokers, Spitters and Tanks out there. Time the week is out, there won't be any more left – and then where will we be? Says I, bet you the walls get torn down once the danger from the air's gone."

"You're scaring all of us," Rochelle said, gently. Ellis could see that she'd begun to spring a leak and was getting teary-eyed, but he couldn't _stop_ himself from talking, much as he wished he could for the sake of the peace.

"Consider this," he said, mouth running away with him, "Had we been on that bridge; having survived everythin', even to the end and had not been immune, reckon we'd 'ave been picked up?"

The silence spoke the truth. They had seen those bodies. Ellis saw the shock of the concept in each of their eyes; a small glaze of fear and realisation before the false, stubborn sense of security came back and the insults flew. Ellis took it on the chin for a minute or two before he held up a finger to quiet it.

"We're all scared," Ellis said, "I get that. If you guys gon' stay here, 'least do me the respectful thing by giving me a chance."

The other three exchanged glances and nodded unconvincingly in reply, but Ellis didn't really care.

"Soldiers'll be in bed soon bar the night patrols," he said, laying down on the bunk he was nearest and pulling the duvet over him, "Gonna sneak into the armoury and see what I can get."

Murmurs in reply as Ellis turned to his side and reached down; peeling free the switchblade he'd taped onto the inside on his boot – a place where the army hadn't checked – and clutched it to his chest very tightly.

The patrol officer came by and turned out the lights. Ellis could hear them all scrambling into their own bunks and he closed his eyes.

"I'll let you know where I am in six days," he muttered back to the blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

_She had almost made the journey completely unscathed. She thinks that she ought to be thankful for that, really; due to its near-impossibility in concept. She is no doubt alive, in a place where they can't get to her and it looks like she's got plenty of food and water. She will last for a while, she thinks, but instead of breathing a sigh of relief, she cries heavily still. _

_Yards from the hideout in the warehouse just north of the bridge; something had smelt her, sensed her – something, she wasn't sure which of them it was – but there had been grunts that had turned without a whisper of warning to loud screams and squawks. She had ran at the sound; more terrified and certain of her own death, despite everything, that she had ever been. _

_God, how she'd ran. She had ran in the damp; rain spattering hard on her gentle face; cheeks and chin chapped from a terrified, primal mixture of tears, saliva and mucus. She recalls their hands, scratching at her, clawing, so close to her and how she could taste their hot, sour breath in her mouth and she shivers deeply, turning over under the coverlet she'd unpacked from the pile of boxes in one corner of the room (it is too thin to have been much use had it been cold outside; thankfully, however, Georgia has never been renowned for being cold). She remembers trying not to make a sound, but she'd not been able to stop her own panicked breaths and cries – and how they had attracted more of them. _

_Despite circumstances however, she had made it to the room and had slammed the bar across the door. They know she's in here and they are waiting for her, though. She can hear them in their clusters; pacing away outside. She has been quiet however and their numbers are dropping – many of them wandering outside to stare absent-mindedly into the sky or to squabble with others who annoy them. She is grateful for that. Maybe they would forget her – _

_If she could only stop crying. _

_There is a body in the corner of the room. It is not terribly deformed in appearance; not much more than the other creatures that lurk on the world outside the prison which is now her home. It is distinguished only by its muscular arms and legs; face partially covered by a bandanna. Its eyes, blinded already and the sockets scratched by a mixture of both the disease it suffered and self-infliction, are now gouged and gone; the bridge of its nose completely shattered. _

_It had been quite a fight – and an unexpected one, at that. It had been waiting for her. It had let her close the door; move some things, even back against the wall, away from the commotion outside. She finds it hard to believe that such a disease, thought to make the brain deteriorate, could breed a monster that was so goddamned clever. _

_She remembers hearing the growling; a deep sense of defeat filling her. She had begun to move slowly toward the table; bejewelled with spare guns and ammunition. Her fingers grazed the shotgun but were not able to grasp it before it pounced with a dreadful shriek. _

_It tore at her with its sharp nails. It hurt so badly and she remembered how terrified she was and begins to sob even harder. She remembered how black the world was becoming; how tattered and red her clothes were and how she tasted copper on her palate. It tore and shrieked and she could hear them wailing outside with glee –_

_**(No)**_

_A brief flash of focus over the scratching and she let out a scream of her own. Her arms shot upwards; her thumbs positioned over its unseeing eyes and she pressed as hard as she could; nails pointing downwards to maximise the effect. A foul, wet popping sound followed; making it stop and scream loudly in agony as it staggered upwards, holding its face. It collided into the table as it hobbled backward; a pistol falling to the ground by her hand. _

_With her last ounce of strength before she lost consciousness; she remembers firing two rounds; replies of a hollow crunch of concrete and an ugly squeal of busted cartilage being her reward. _

_Her shaking has gotten worse. A lot of it is fear; but even more of it is the vast number of pills she's taken to bear with the pain. They are strong, medical-grade with a heavy codeine base. She feels like every limb weighs a ton; but she feels no pain. She's barely in her head at all, really – and that helps a lot in coping with the quite devastating fear of dying alone that she would otherwise suffer from._

_She pulls away the blanket and looks down at herself. The bleeding has gone down, which she is grateful for. There had been little sufficient first aid about, so she'd washed the wounds out with some water and soap. In one corner, she can still see where she'd done it; blood smears and dilute red water droplets scattered over words of graffiti people had left as their last legacies. She has also smeared in a little vodka; a large bottle also being present (only half-full; the remainder had been consumed by Bill and Francis) and torn up an old bedsheet – using a knife to make incisions and her fingers to tear them open – to use as bandages._

_Foolishly, but not caring, she takes a large swig of the vodka and gasps when she is done; the unpleasant, cheap, 'industrial thinner' taste entering her nostrils making her gag heavily. She sets down the bottle and staggers to her feet, edging towards the body, as if any moment, despite the bullet wound though the face; it would come back to life and tear at her again and again and again and again – _

_(I'm going to be sick)_

_She does not want it here. Risk or not, she will have to move it eventually. It stinks already; a thick miasma of sweat, blood and shit; with a filthy, underlying hormonal scent; sweet and dirty to the taste, like mouldy bread. She chokes a little; moving to raise her hand to the mouth; but instead stops and lets it drop down to her side instead. _

_She must move very quickly if she is to get rid of it. _

_Bending over, she links her arms under its shoulders. Its sheer dead weight surprises and sickens her, the terrible smell closer, intimate and more pungent than ever. Heaving hard, the effort causing her sides to feel as if they are about to burst open in agony, she drags the creature to the door; eying her enemies on the outside. There are only three of them at the moment near the proximity of where she has taken shelter, but there are more than that a little further out into the road. She can hear them grunting and wailing and feels as if it is a sound that she will always hear – even in her dreams. _

_She will have precious few seconds to move after she fires. In her hand, as she hides out of sight, is a Magnum. She lifts up the bar gingerly and closes her eyes briefly in a silent prayer. Then she releases the bar; causing a laud clatter. _

_High pitched squeals rain through the air as she kicks open the door with a yell. Two of them are rushing towards her and she shrieks in fear. She pushes the body toward them with a cry, causing the two of them to stagger backward as the third one leaps toward her. Its fist catches her cheek with a dull crunch and a familiar warm pain rises upwards. She kicks outward and fires two shots; one entering its torso; the other hitting the creature behind in the forehead. _

_She backs toward the door as the third comes rushing forward; another strafing around the corner screeching. She kicks again; her face already feeling swollen and strikes it hard in the ribs; causing it to stagger over, coughing up blood. She slams the door shut as they rush forward and try to push in. Holding against it with all her weight, she reaches on the ground for the bar, which, when she does, she slams across the door with a grunt of victory._

_(Fuck I can hear them oh God) _

_More of them are coming now. She moves quickly; picking up an assault rifle that lies on the table and gets to work; mowing down the arms reaching through the bars of the door like tendrils. _

_It takes half an hour until the road is clear again and by the time it's done, she's exhausted. Her cheek throbs with pain. She hopes that it's not broken, though there's not much she can do about it if it is, regardless. _

_She piles some boxes against the door. There's one that's heavy and full of paint cans that takes her a while to push over; an activity she enjoys little. She puts a couple on top of that which are mainly empty, as well – not to act so much as a barricade; more so that nothing can see in. The drawback of this, of course, is that she can't see outside, but she's willing to risk it so that she can pretend for a few nights and sleep easier. _

_Which is something drinking could certainly help with. She swallows some more vodka and coughs again; hating the taste. She smacks the side of the vending machine and a soda can falls down; the mechanism preventing petty theft long broken by Francis the night they had stayed here. She drinks half and fills the rest with vodka; glugging it down quickly. Alone in her thoughts; she remembers the first drink she'd ever had. It had been when she was fourteen, with her dad. He'd taken her fly fishing one autumn and they'd gotten cold, so he'd offered her a swig from his hip flask. It had been unpleasant then. Many experiences later with alcohol, she thought she'd changed her mind, but in reality, she'd never really liked the flavour. _

_(You killed him you stupid bitch you killed him)_

_Her Dad was dead because of her. She could never have known at the time, but it was her fault. Had they waited and just held out before she'd listened to him – _

_She curls up into a ball on the floor; sobbing again. She is tired of crying. Was that why Witches cried? Because they had nothing left to hold on to – no sanity, no family – only death? _

_She wants him here. She wants him to be here so badly; stroking her hair like when she had nightmares as a little girl, telling her so convincingly that everything's going to be alright, that Daddy's here and it isn't real, isn't real –_

_But he isn't – and __**it**__ is. It is a fact, the greatest one among all, that she does not want to accept. She has no family anymore and her friends have left her – sailing over the water so majestically, knowing their freedom as she fell into the dark... _

_She pulls the blanket over her head and realises that, through getting rid of the body up to now, she has still not stopped shaking. _


	4. Chapter 4

"Sergeant, this is Jennings, over."

"Read you, Captain. What's the problem? Over."

"There's been a breach in security, Ogden. We need to rally quickly by the gates, stat. Over."

"Roger that, Captain. What's the brief? Over."

"One of the carriers is attempting to escape and has turned hostile. He's rendered several of my men unconscious; one of them having a stab wound to the Achilles. He should be considered armed and dangerous. Use of deadly force is authorised on him, but not the others. Hostile's name is Ellis McKinney; early twenties, mid height, dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit and a T-Shirt. Codename: Tango Mike Bravo. Over."

"Heading over now, sir. Over and out."

The Sergeant exchanged a brief worried glance with the colleague closest to him before he began to issue his commands, muffled strangely by the heavy gas mask he was wearing.

"Anderson! Johnson! Simpson! Bennett! MOVE MOVE MOVE!"

By the time they'd gotten there however; Ellis was long gone. All that remained of him were a pair of bloodstained work boots and a broken chain on the gate; of which he'd ploughed though haphazardly, still perhaps naively awaiting a homecoming in just under a week by his 'buddies', in one of their armoured vans that had been filled deceptively with supplies and guns. Captain Jennings, leader of the guard at the safe camp, shot his Sergeant in the shoulder as punishment.

* * *

><p>Sirens were going off now, which caused the three survivors that remained at the camp to wake up sharply. In the dark, they did not need to see each other to understand what they were all thinking. None of them, not even the soldiers, knew about the disaster at Millhaven around a week and a half ago due to disastrous communications between camps (as well as its location being far from where they currently were), but they were all imagining an instinctive image that was very, very similar.<p>

"Is that..." Rochelle started, horrified.

"Oh God," Nick breathed, voice slightly muffled under the hands that covered his face, "They're going to draw in the whole fucking nation if we don't stop them –"

But by that time, they knew they were already too late. The sirens had drawn those screams and grunts, far off into the distance and only gradually moving, right to them – and they were now here. The three of them could hear the yells of the men as the gunshots rang out; a loud metallic echo penetrating the walls of the barracks.

"We have to move," said Coach, standing up indignantly. "Sooner we get out there, the more men we can save. They've no idea what's gonna be coming for them –"

The door flew open; flooding the room with a bright yellow light. Rochelle felt her heart stop for a moment before Jennings charged in and grabbed her. His broken mask dangled around his neck and Rochelle was able to see his face for the first time. It was heavily scarred, as typical for many veteran servicemen, but she was more heavily focussed on his eyes, which were now wide and crazed.

"Tell me where he went," he panted furiously.

"I don't know."

Jennings hit her, hard. Rochelle felt her teeth penetrating the inside of her cheek and yelped in pain. Coach and Nick pulled him off and held him back as he struggled and screamed; strands of bloody saliva pouring down his chin. He broke free in a jolt and pushed them back, screaming the same request out again and again in increasingly more profane ways until finally his voice was too murky to make out.

He went for her neck, then; his hands clamping round tightly. Rochelle's eyes bulged in terror as he choked her; nails digging in deeper and deeper. Fortunately, she did not have to bear it too long as Nick, having spied the Colt that had Jennings had dropped as he stormed in (assumedly to use as a means of gathering information) had manoeuvred it smartly and fired a round into the crown of his head. The body collapsed; leaking brains and blood. It would have been enough to drive Rochelle to madness a few weeks ago. Now, she was used to it and disturbingly found such a state almost comforting.

"Thank you," she gasped, rubbing where she'd been throttled. Nick smiled warmly at her, held out his hand – which she accepted gladly – and he pulled her up.

"Let's get the fuck out of here. Ellis was right; there was only a matter of time until the place broke down. They'd have used the siren eventually. Only question really was when."

Rochelle nodded in response; ears suddenly pricking up. She got up, walking around the room slowly.

"What are you – "

"Shhh!"

Now Nick could hear it. It was a faint crackling noise; like static. Rochelle hunted a while longer until her foot collided with something. She reached down and picked it up, the crackling noise immediately stopping.

"Well," Nick asked, "What is it?"

"Ellis left us a walkie-talkie," Rochelle replied with a snort. "Stupid boy's probably not realised he's just worn out the battery."

Coach chuckled merrily for a moment; when a loud crash and a torrent of screams brought them back to reality. They ran outside; though corridors that were beforehand filled with guards 'for their own protection'. They were now empty; smears of blood charismatically coating the walls and several bodies, guards and infected, lining them.

The three of them dreaded seeing the scene, with which they had every right. From their view from the barracks situated on the top of a low hill; the infected were pouring in like floodwater through the gates. The few soldiers that were left were either running away or fighting for their lives as best they could; gunning down infected as they went. Rochelle raised her hand to her mouth and turned away, ill at the sight and sound of death and conscious, human screams.

Nick left for a moment; returning with three M16's, magazines and some frag grenades.

"Found these in the hallway. They belonged to the guards. Since they don't really need them now, we pretty much ought to get to work."

"What's the plan?" Coach asked; loading the gun.

"Far as I'm aware, the alarm's 'off-switch' is on the other side of the complex. Don't ask me how I know that; but I'm pretty sure it'll be in the same place where the main power is regulated. Someone's got to reset the power so it'll turn off. Preferably someone who can run fast."

A pause without volunteers and Rochelle groaned, stepping forward.

"I'll do it."

Nick glared at Coach, who shrugged sheepishly and nodded back at her. He would've done it, if he were able to run. Years of smoking had long shot his lungs and only a sufficient adrenaline rush would work, which was getting harder and harder ironically to find these days.

Good God, how he wanted a Richmond.

"Alright. Gonna guess the remainder of the soldiers are gonna be in hiding; so ergo pretty useless. We're gonna have to distract the infected so that we can fix the gate. They made a sensible move, for once, building this place on a cliff; so we can reasonably assume that the vast majority of the zombies are coming in from the front. Once we do that, we should be secure for a little while, so we can regroup and think of a better plan to either magically repel the huge horde headed our way, or a haphazard means of escape."

"My idea is thus this. First, I will attempt to sneak down to the garages in the paddock. Ellis will have broken in there already, so it shouldn't be locked or bolted up. I'm pretty sure there's a few fuelled jeeps in storage there. When I secure one of those, I'm gonna fill it with as many surplus gas canisters that I can get my hands on. Next bit's where you come in, Coach. While I'm doing this, I want you to go down to the armoury, which should also be unlocked – as it's again fair to assume that Ellis broke in there as well – and get your hands on the best sniper rifle you can get, along with several bile jars, if you can get them – or bombs with a distraction feature if you can't – plus an army knife or machete for Smokers. Then, climb to the roof of the building and wait for me."

"I will," Nick continued, swallowing hard at the idea, "then drive the jeep at top speed through the horde towards the gates; jamming the gas with a canister and then jump out just as it goes through. As I do this, I want you to throw as many bile jars as you can at the jeep, or if you've got distraction bombs, as far out of the complex as possible. When the jeep's right out of the complex and I'm ready, I will begin closing the gates. I then want you to use the sniper rifle on that jeep to blow them all the fuck up after I've secured the chain. There should be some tools or some shit in the garage that'll be able to keep it shut for at least a little bit before we get the barricade a bit more secure."

Rochelle and Coach blinked, unable to believe what he was saying.

"How'd you come up with..." Coach began, when Nick waved impatiently.

"It helps when in the past you've led a life of sin," he replied earnestly, shrugging.

"So, let me get this straight," Rochelle started, "Mr 'Every Man for Himself' is about to risk his own life for a couple of people he doesn't even like – is that right?"

For a moment, Nick softened and felt like he really wanted to tell her the truth. But, as he wasn't very good at expressing his emotional side (despite three unsuccessful marriages) he snorted, and rolled his eyes.

"Doll, I'm unfortunately doing it for men everywhere. Aside from Zoey, who, last time I checked, has moved to a desert island, you're pretty much the only woman round these parts. And since you probably wouldn't be anyone's first choice otherwise, I'd start thinking about taking up a few offers next time you're asked."

"Fuck you, Nick."

"You wish, sweetheart."

* * *

><p>Alone, the others having long gone to do their tasks; Rochelle had paused. She had been staring at the expanse between her and the control room and was amazed how far it seemed. The fear of running such a distance welled up within her darkly and she was in somewhat of a stupor. She felt a grim certainty that she was going to fail deep in her bones and shivered. Her neck and cheek were still throbbing with pain and she grunted at the memory with disgust.<p>

It was around one hundred metres downhill. Rochelle used to run around twenty times that every morning and night to keep in shape for her job. She found it really hard to believe that now.

She looked at her watch and swallowed, hard. One minute left. Nick had asked them all to sync their watches to know when to start as a guide. Rochelle knew though that she didn't have to set an alarm to know when shit was about to go down. She watched the second hand ticking; slow as eternity, but not quite enough. She counted out the last few seconds aloud under her breath and a slick of panic inside her erupted as the time went up – and still, no commotion to be heard –

Then, somewhere in the distance, she heard the squeal of tyres and shrieking from the horde – and knew that it was okay. She smiled to herself; proud of Nick and Coach – and stared out across to the building; readying herself. She figured it would be best to run_, just run forward; don't look left or right or you'll get slowed down and scream_ –

Rochelle swallowed a lump, cocked her M16 and focussed firmly on the building.

_Go_.

With all the might of her tennis player's legs, she bolted as fast as she could. She heard immediate grunts and yells at her brave move. They began to immediately follow; footsteps and squalling behind her. They were gaining fast – their hot breath close to her neck and the presence of their grasping hands scratching and pulling at her back– and getting closer still. She tried to run in a zigzag pattern; to defer them as much as she could and she could hear collisions and screams behind her – punches and wet packing sounds following as they fought with each other violently.

Feeling more and more like Jurassic Park's Ellie Sattler in the raptor paddock, she bolted sharply; the distance closing. Fifty, thirty, twenty, ten –

Rochelle made it to the door and, with an almighty kick and a scream, punted the horde backward and slammed closed the iron door. They screeched and battered against it, but it would hold just long enough.

The building was small; no larger than a bungalow and from the lack of a hollow echo from her footsteps, she had a feeling there was no basement. Flicking on her torch, she passed a long pipeline on the right wall; keeping her hand along it to feel where she was. It led her around a corner and meandered into a fork on the ceiling to the mains; which lead, a sweet sight indeed, to the fuse box right ahead. It was only when Rochelle heavily exhaled with a gasp that she'd realised she had been holding her breath. She opened it gingerly; placing the cover carefully on the ground. The steel of the door was beginning to creak disturbingly because of their pounding and she knew it wasn't going to hold out for much longer.

Rochelle ran her torch across the box; reading the labels next to them. Their type was small and the light was dim, so she had to duck down and squint to read them. After a little investigation, she found the main lever and grasped it tightly, praying.

Rochelle pulled the lever; where it made a loud metallic clang as it went to its downward position. Immediately, the siren stopped and Rochelle exhaled again. She celebrated internally for a moment and pulled the switch back up again.

She couldn't tell if anything had happened. Feeling across the pipeline again, she stumbled across a flat black switch on the wall; appropriately labelled as the lights. Flicking it upwards with her thumb, she prepared herself for the glare, but it didn't come.

_Shit_.

She flicked it up and down again several times desperately.

_Oh shit_.

She felt she should have expected it really. Of course, when one positive thing happened to them; the negative would follow suit. It had been that way all through the fighting and the shit – and had carried on up until they got rescued to that moment. She felt frustrated and miserable; holding out hopes that power wouldn't be something they would really be all that desperate for. Reasonably, she considered the time they would be staying there.

The slamming sounds grew louder again briefly and Rochelle curled up against the wall; holding a hand tightly against her mouth in an act of mistrust against the control of her ability not to scream. She heard the grind of steely mesh and was just about to do so when it wavered, faded and then vanished away entirely; the violent noises growing farther and farther away.

Rochelle keeled over in a deep faint and, with blissful ignorance of the ongoing commotion, dreamed silently of nothing.

* * *

><p><em>Oaaaaaaaaarghhhhh... <em>

_Arrrrrrghhhhooooooaaaarhhhh..._

_(Focus you have to)_

_(There's so many behind me)_

_(You're nearly there)_

_(What if it)_

_(It's time)_

_(What if it doesn't work)_

_(It's time)_

_(Just close your eyes)_

_(Alright I'm ready I'm)_

_(JUMP)_

* * *

><p>Coach didn't have time to reflect on the scene below him from the roof. If he had, he wouldn't have been able to see through the sights of his rifle from shaking. He'd known a number of them had broken in through the gate, but he'd no real idea how many.<p>

There was literally a sea of them. A bloody, wailing sea whose only fitting place was somewhere in some sociopath's wet dream. The sea of infected had first expanded quickly but had now begun to contract; the large jeep they had chosen splitting it down the middle, the crevasse filling quickly and thickening with more of them, screaming loudly as they rushed after the jeep, moving slowly due to the soup of bodies underneath, in a rage. They had been kidding when they'd spoken about Nick's death earlier. Now Coach, looking down on the horde below, hadn't the slightest idea how he was gonna make it. An uncomfortable wave of nausea rose in his large belly and broke when he shook his head and bent down; grasping a jar of Boomer bile.

They had been fortunate – Nick's original speculations being correct. Ellis had indeed broken into the armoury. One of the guards had lain unconscious next to it; a knife wound through his heel. Coach, although having witnessed a ludicrous amount of injury and gore, still flinched at the sight of Ellis's violent means of persuasion. Nick, on the other hand, had snorted in a sort of surprised, congratulative way.

Inside the armoury, though visibly disturbed due to Ellis' earlier presence, there was still a good selection of guns. Coach had selected a marksman-grade sniper rifle (an MSG90A1) and had stuffed several magazines into his pockets for maximum firepower (something of which he'd never, in the last few weeks, had any reason to doubt he'd need). While he'd been doing that, Nick had reloaded his M16, taken another replacement magazine and tied the frag grenades to his waist using elastic cord cut from one of the survival backpacks (the forty kilo or so, everything-you-need-in-vacuum-packaging variety). There had been a line of bile jars on one of the back shelves, which Coach loaded into the drawstring bag that they had previously used for carrying water and rations. He grimaced at the vile liquid sloshing about inside and noted how curiously alien it still seemed. He also wondered, considering the collection that had been scavenged, how long it had taken (namely, how many CEDA agents had been shot) until the soldiers who 'guarded' them realised how precious a commodity bile was.

The jeep was closing distance to the entrance fast and, with every yard, it seemed a mile further away for Coach to focus on as a target without using the sight of his rifle. With the rifle, it was just fine; the blue of the petrol canisters tied to the back bright and reassuring. He suddenly realised how much he doubted his previously championship-winning ability to throw. Age had caught up with him – that there was no denying – and he thought that, on top of all things, his vision was beginning to fade away; the ocean below blurring.

They were good enough, however – or, Coach's reflexes had simply become better than before – to spot the moving dark blur to his left. Coach lined up the sight and fired easily with just one arm; a defeated wheeze and a puff of smoke being his reward as the Smoker fell from the building. He was worried there were more of them, they were always one of the biggest troublemakers –

_Stop listening to yourself and throw._

Upon taking a deep breath; Coach did just that. The first one he threw much too far and it landed and smashed about twenty feet beyond the perimeter, but the second caught the cans perfectly. He smiled to himself and threw another two; which splattered the front and side of the jeep. He had been lucky and, as the alarm cut out, once wailing over everything, he felt more optimistic still.

Not waiting around, he began firing like a motherfucker. The horde was massive now and had closed tightly in on the jeep. As it reached the gate; he saw a white blur; nearly lost amongst the horde, uninterested and unaware, tumble out of the right side and curl behind a patch of undergrowth for a moment. He kept his watch; still in awe of the number that were pouring out from the place. Sure enough however, the flood shortly turned from a flood to a trickle – which meant it was Coach's time to shine.

Coach, through the sight, rapidly shot down the remaining few trickling out of the gates and saw Nick get up and pull the gates closed. They had found some welding material (in a cupboard in the same garage where there jeep had originated) which Nick had chosen as his means of repair; simple, if not crude. Coach watched as he sprayed some inflammatory agent onto the chain that had been strewn on the ground beside them and used a blowtorch; binding them together into a hold that would not be too firm, but sufficient. It would have to be. Coach's Uncle Eddie used to weld and had let him try when he'd hit his teens. The sparks that were flying off during Nick's handiwork would have earned Nick a spanking from him, had he been there; as he remembered Eddie telling him how bad a sign that was. He found it amusing how very little it mattered now.

The jeep was getting further and further away and Coach, terrified that it was just going to be out of his sight, was relieved when Nick gave a thumbs up and ran backward, throwing frag grenades over the fence that then exploded noisily; tossing bodies into the air. He turned on the laser sight, the jeep barely visible in the dark and fired the remainder of the magazine at it, in swift succession.

The explosion the followed was huge and lit up the night. It began slowly; a bright burn in the distance but combustion quickly followed as the fire reached the gas tank of the jeep. It rapidly turned into a huge fireball and erupted loudly into flames; limbs and screams filling the air beyond the wall.

They had won, for now.


	5. Chapter 5

For Ellis, the night had not been as eventful. He had driven all night, stopping only once to urinate and hadn't gotten any sleep at all. He'd thought about pulling over a couple of times, as experienced drivers do with the constant worry of unauthorised sleep on their minds, but he had simply been too restless to do so. He felt tired, that was for sure – but he felt he'd a duty to fulfil and he didn't think he'd covered enough ground to set him at any kind of ease where sleep was possible. How could he? After all, he'd forgotten how far they'd come from Savannah. A distance that spanned three goddamn states – the majority of which, not by car. It would likely take much longer by means of driving than it had taken them – regardless of any 'inconveniences' that occurred along the way.

He hoped he would be lucky.

The hardest part, so far, hadn't been the blocked up highways or the infected wandering about waiting to attack. No, the most difficult bit (and the reason why Ellis had driven all night) was finding an alternate means across the Mississippi than the long-obliterated bridge back in New Orleans. It had taken him nine hours to find one (the army had bombed out all of the major bridges) and even then, crossing had been a bitch. Ellis had driven along the shore to upstate Louisiana and the path had led him from the urban setting, where the safety paddock they'd been sent to had been located, back into the nightmare of the swampy bayou. There was an area where some of the locals had attempted to build a dam, perhaps thinking of the same issue of which Ellis had immediately realised, before even considering leaving the camp. It was roughly made; mostly driftwood and garbage, but it was ideal; as the river had noticeably tapered at that point and, due to the appearance of unfortunate cars in the centre of the river that had tried to cross too early, it was much shallower than downstate.

Crossing the gap had been very noisy and Ellis, as the tyres of the armoured vehicle (far better equipped than the botched-job he'd attempted on his beloved pickup) squelched and squealed across, was uncomfortably aware of the commotion he was making. He went as fast as he could; but the wing view mirrors, although he could see that the infected attracted by the noise were visibly struggling in the sodden earth underneath the water, were telling him that he must go faster still. He began to sweat as the car struggled across; the ground beginning to shake as something huge lumbered in the distance, yelling and grunting...

It was only when the van accelerated all of a sudden that Ellis knew he'd reached the other side. His eyes had been closed; his palms wet and slippery – barely able to grasp hold onto the steering wheel. They were still coming. In the mirror, he could still see them coming, moving faster as the water shallowed.

He did not fear the run-of-the-mill infected, however. Rather, his greatest source of fear stemmed from the _behemoth_ that was ploughing through them. It was coming for his flesh. He could see it getting closer and closer; bodies flying aside like crash dummies as it pushed through the crowd. He swallowed a lump of something wedged in his throat and reminded himself that it couldn't get him, it just couldn't, the van was safe...

Ellis, however, was not stupid enough to take risks. On the passenger seat, as a means of safety, he had placed six Molotov cocktails, five bile jars and an AK-47, his favourite automatic. Not stopping even to breathe, he let reflexes take over and opened the window. He knew he was susceptible to attack, but with little choice, the cons would have to be put aside. Ignoring his Dad's advice about the seven deadly sins of driving (the other six were seatbelt, sleeping (he supposed he had ignored that one too), drinking, distraction, speeding and no tool kit) he let go of the steering wheel and reached for his Zippo; a present from Keith on his last birthday (it had been Keith's' lucky' lighter – the one with the pewter skull that Ellis had begged him for since they were fifteen – which he'd decided to give to him after he'd set his beard on fire when smoking as a motivation to help him quit). He lit a Molotov and threw it out behind him, along with a bile jar for good luck. An eruption of brightness lit up behind him and Ellis breathed a sigh of relief.

He was unable to hear the hawking as he wound up the window, but when the fluid hit his arm, he knew what had happened. The slime had spattered the window – rendering Ellis blind on one side – and all over his left arm.

The burning was intense and immediate. Ellis swore loudly and seethed; the patches of acid turning his arm red and raw. He tried to move his other arm from the wheel to rub it off, but the van swerved sharply; a splatter of mud showering upwards from the wheels. Swearing louder, he gritted his teeth and bore it; placing both hands firmly on the wheel as he struggled through the mud. The rawness was rapidly wealing, but he couldn't help that now.

One hundred miles later, Ellis had stopped in a garage in a quiet town, much like his own back home (except there was only one gas pump, which was inside the garage in the corner). From the signs lining the highways, he had deviated further from the coast than he'd hoped, to his frustration. He was in Claiborne County, _Mississippi_ however – which, he supposed, was one victory out of two. The town was called Sidewinder and was mostly dirt roads and empty houses. He assumed that the townspeople had either died or been evacuated, because it was literally deserted. Not that he was complaining due to the lack of infected to deal with, but the mystery of it chilled him to the bone.

The automated garage door was fortunately still working and Ellis wasted no time in closing it. He piled up some tyres up against the door which led into the shop office and figured that at least, for tonight, he'd be safe enough. Even so, being careful, he held out an ear for a few moments; listening like a rabbit, but the quiet remained.

Ellis got into the back of the truck and curled up tightly, unable to accept it. He was not used to quiet. He used to associate quiet with relaxation, a country outing or something similar. Now, he associated it with the coming before the storm; the death toll preceding the arrival of some Big Thing.

It was ironic, really. He had spent so much time alone in the complex, when he had the option at any time to just talk to people. Now, Ellis had all the time in the world to be alone and, at that moment, would have done anything, anything at all, to just have someone to yammer to. He realised how much he had condemned himself to a life of running and how he now knew, after the struggle he had gone through to acquire the necessary equipment; that he could never go back to that place where all the people able to talk and think were. He had made his bed, as his mother often told him about his job, and he now had to lie in it. He nursed his arm childishly, thinking of fixing it up but not bothering.

He had few things to console him, with the exception of drink; something he had decided to avoid that night in case of any event where he had to move quickly. One was the certainty of his destination. The second – and the only other one he could think of right now – was the walkie-talkie. He had stared at it lovingly; even though he was aware that its batteries had died (there had been several backups in the truck, so he wasn't worried). It had taken the majority of his strength to stop himself from using it that night due to how badly he wanted to hear the voices of the people who he'd saved and had saved him; a familiar drop in an ocean of unfamiliarity. He hadn't though. He wasn't taking any risks, being alone – even if the town was quiet.

More importantly though, he didn't want to let them know how afraid he was and how much he was weakening, already. Ellis felt he had to be strong for himself – and them too. If they knew he was pussying out of his somewhat monumental decision, he didn't know what they'd think of him. Probably not an awful lot, being the point.

He knew he was regretting it now, because he was vulnerable. He'd a feeling that the first night was bound to be the worst. It was going to get easier. He just had to keep on believing it would and get some of his goddamn optimism back.

He was going to find her and he knew where to start. He was heading to where it all began; where they'd met, shared jokes and worked together for a common purpose. He was going to Rayford, Georgia. Back to the docks and the warehouses – back to the bridge that had caused so much trouble. He would start his search there and, if he didn't find her, he was going to sail to every goddamn key until he did; starting with Sugarloaf and working his way round.

Ellis knew that if she knew his plans, she'd think him crazy. Shit, he thought he was crazy. But he really didn't care. He'd figured it all out in his head somehow and it made sense to him.

He just really hoped she didn't think he was a stalker.

Ellis thought about that to himself for a minute and couldn't help bursting into laughter; muffling it with his hands. He'd have some explaining to do, certainly. He figured she wouldn't think that little of him, though – and realised that he hadn't really a decent reason to think so. He just had a good feeling about her. There was some kind of good-natured understanding about her that had been Ellis' partial attraction to her in the first place. Even from their brief interactions from balcony-to-street, he'd gathered that she wasn't like the majority of ordinary girls. Ellis didn't want to be stereotypical about what girls were like; but it was _true_. He'd listened to her; the streams of old horror movie quotes, her sense of humour and the way she stood dominant as a figure between her male comrades and had sensed it from the beginning. Here was not a girl who talked about the 'base system' in the girls' bathroom while powdering her schnoz amidst giggles and bitching. Here was a girl, who was no doubt outcast and ridiculed by them for being different, but had learned to be strong and not care an ounce what they thought. Here was a girl who stood up for herself and could hold her own; help around, or not.

And here was a girl, a fact of which Ellis did not doubt, who was mistreated by other girls not just because she was different and damned proud of it, but also of whom they were jealous as hell of. They could buy their expensive products ('Channel', or something) and slather on as much as they wanted; but they would always be plain in comparison to Zoey. She didn't need any of that shit. Ellis thought of how ridiculous he'd sounded when he'd proclaimed it in his heavy southern accent, but he'd been honest nonetheless. She _was_ an angel in comparison to any girl he'd ever seen – and Ellis had a sad feeling that she'd not been told that very often. He smiled to himself, tone withstanding and wondered if she'd believe him if he told her that. Probably not at first.

He'd just have to keep on telling her until she did.

Ellis had told Polly that she was an angel. He had been honest at the time with her and she'd fallen into his arms at the compliment. He wasn't thinking about that situation because he regretted saying it then, though. He rather thought that he'd been somewhat immature with the compliment and that he'd thrown them around a little much in their first few weeks of dating. It was funny now, but he remembered feeling so hopeless around her at times and always had the niggling awe in the back of his mind about just what the hell a girl like her saw in him. Ellis figured he'd be feeling that about most girls for the rest of his life; which fit fairly well with his feelings for Zoey – of which he was uncertain were mutual – and the fact that his life, after all, was likely bound to be quite short.

_(Zoey yeah she'll like me I'm sure she purple dinosaur)_

His thoughts were beginning, incredibly, to blur. It was an occasion, in these last few weeks that was pretty rare – actually _wanting_ sleep. He lay on his back, sprawling out as much as he could in the limited space and clicked off the torch. The resulting darkness was as immediate as it was perfect; shrouding him in a cloak of faux safety.

He closed his eyes as reality slid away and, as he did so, he swore he heard crickets chirping outside.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey there, little sister."

The words, at first, she did not quite comprehend. She was still coming to from her place of peace; rudely accelerated by bright lights in her vision from a doctor's penlight. She sat up, shaking off dregs of sluggishness and looked up at a pair of warm brown eyes.

"Coach?" Rochelle gasped in disbelief, eyes watering from the light. It flickered off as she heard scribbling behind her; bleached cells causing a blob of opaque colour in her sight. She scowled, closing her eyes and rolling them under her lids to try and make it go away.

"Patient... is... fine," the doctor dictated as he wrote, "No... signs... of... infection... or... any... grievous... bodily... harm. Responded... well... to... optical... exam."

Rochelle snorted at the latter and looked up at the doctor with a scowl; not hiding her dislike.

"You okay, girl?" Coach asked, interrupting her thoughts. Rochelle nodded as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm just a bit groggy, is all," she replied. "How long was I –?"

"Not long," Coach said, smiling, "so don't worry. Only around an hour or so."

"Is everything –?"

"We beat 'em back," a soldier from the back said triumphantly. It was Coach's turn to scowl now, but he knew, when humans were sparse, that tonight was not the night for conflict. They'd done enough of that shit earlier.

"Plan worked," Coach said, happily.

"For real?"

"Yeah. We drove them out. There's no more infected in the compound for now."

"Did Nick make it?" She asked desperately – and then immediately wondered why.

"Crazy son of a bitch. Yeah, he made it. He's around somewhere. We split up to secure the area best we could and to look for you. Lucky you fell where you did, else you'd have likely been trampled."

"Consoling."

Coach shrugged as the soldier retrieved his walkie-talkie and began contacting his fellow guards. As Rochelle had expected, he was wearing his gas mask. They'd had that talk long ago and she felt herself shrivel miserably inside every time she thought of the chopper pilot who'd crashed after he'd risked his life already to save them from Whispering Oaks.

"Jones, this is Bennett. Located Tango Mike Alfa. She is fine and well. Will rendezvous with your team in fifteen minutes –"

"– gimme that fucker –" A familiar voice said rudely on the other end. Some noises of struggle occurred on the other end until Nick's voice finally came through, uninterrupted.

"Rochelle? Can you hear me?"

Corporal Bennett put his hand over the receiver. Rochelle couldn't see under his mask, but she knew, as he handed it over to her, that he'd rolled his eyes. It didn't matter, though. What did was how unreasonably happy she was to hear from him.

"Copy that," she replied, smiling.

She heard a huge laugh from the other end and cheering.

"Jesus, Ro, don't scare me like that. When you didn't come back up to the main building, we all thought the worst –"

"As per usual then, Nick."

"Shut up," Nick replied grouchily. "I was only being nice."

"Now that's a _rare_ event," Rochelle retorted. She loved winding him up, but decided to back off a bit. "Heard the news – it's great. I'm... proud of you."

The other end buzzed with radio interference but no voice. Rochelle knew he was still there. She was just pretty sure that he didn't know what to say. She felt embarrassed about it somehow and changed the subject, though not wanting to.

"Is everything secure?"

"There's another team working on that. Army secured an oil tanker so they're moving that in front of the gates, along with some other stuff as a barricade. Fuses are blown, however. Normally, that would mean sending a hunting party out for them after it cools down outside, but –"

Rochelle felt very cold.

" But what?" She asked, gnawing on the skin of her thumb; a terrible habit that she always did when she was nervous.

" – there's been a hefty body count," Nick said, uneasily. "Of the thirty or so people that were on this base, so far, we've only found eight alive, excepting the three of us. They've so far found fourteen bodies and the rest of them are missing."

Her stomach dropped. Coach rubbed her shoulder, not knowing what else to do. The army and the three of them had never seen eye-to-eye, but the last thing she had wanted was their deaths. She wanted to blame Ellis for it, as a bitter child would, but they couldn't blame him. The three of them had stressed that noise, noise was what drew them, you must understand that, literally anything at all but _noise_ – and they had not listened to them. It was the siren that drew the crowds, not Ellis – so all they had on their hands was a stupid, sad accident as a result of a bad mix of arrogance and ignorance.

"I miss him already too," Coach said and Ro nodded, trying to stop herself from crying by breathing hard.

"We have a bigger problem, as well," Nick continued. "In that the biggest defence of the walls has broken down. The barbed wire over the top was _electrified_, Ro."

"So what does that mean?" She asked, not wanting to know.

"That if we don't get fuses," Nick said, swallowing again, "this place is going to be overrun in around forty-eight hours, give or take with how much ammo we've got left. We have to get out of here, Ro – all of us. If we don't, we aren't going to make it – except up Shit Creek without so much as a goddamn toothpick."

She'd been right about not wanting to know. Her hand went slack around the talkie from shock and Bennett took it from her politely.

"There's a radio in the main building, Tango Mike Charlie," he told Nick. "It's not in working order at the moment for obvious reasons, but it's not in too bad of a shape. I can probably have it working in a few hours and get a link with Papa Gator. Last word was yesterday so he and Command should be fine. He has an assortment of working rescue copters according to his last message, so ought to be able to secure our evacuation. Over."

"The sooner the better," Nick replied. "Over and out."

The soldier looked down at Rochelle, placing his gun back into the holster on his back.

"There's nothing to be gained by keeping a tone of separation between us, Tango Mikes," Bennett said, voice deep and raspy even through his mask, "So I'm going to be honest. There is no point in us pretending that we know better than you after how you handled that situation – therefore, I'm going to ask you for your utmost help and cooperation in ensuring our secure leave."

If Nick had heard, Rochelle wondered how smug he would look. Rochelle couldn't help feeling a little bit herself, especially after their crappy initial treatment.

"What does that involve?" Coach asked.

Another soldier stepped forward, helping Rochelle to her feet, to which she smiled gratefully.

"Everything ," Bennett breathed, "and ANYTHING you can tell us about the Whiskey Deltas."

"The what?"

"The 'Walking Dead'."

Coach and Rochelle exchanged glances.

"We know they're obviously really alive," the other soldier said sarcastically. "It's just a codename."

"Didn't CEDA tell you everything?" Rochelle replied, mouth agape. She couldn't believe the extent of the army's ignorance. She'd always had a feeling that they didn't know a whole lot, but she'd figured they'd have at least a little intelligence; or drawn some conclusions themselves. Considering it had taken them, four ordinary people as a group they once were, very little time to learn, it really worried her.

If only they'd listened to those three people back on the bridge. Though, disturbingly, that was far from the first time she'd thought that...

"Negative, Tango Mike Alfa," said Bennett. "CEDA were eliminated almost entirely within the first three weeks of infection. We have scattered field notes describing certain mutations and hear-say rumours which were regrettably silenced, but never full descriptions. We need to know everything you know, in order to prep whatever men we have for effective combat."

Rochelle wanted to say something back, but thought better of it. Instead, she somewhat admired how honestly blunt he had been. She brushed dirt from her jeans instead and gave a reluctant nod, which Coach copied. It was like teaching children, was the truth of it. Except _these_ children were supposed to be protecting them – rather than retreating and then leaving them to take charge of everything.

Rochelle stared blankly at the doctor, conversing in whispers to another soldier nearer the door and wondered what the hell they were going to do.


	7. Chapter 7

_One of the things had survived. It had waited for them; watching in the dark. They hadn't known this, at all. For such a large creature, they found it hard to believe. The rain had been the shield. It had been the mask that stilled its grunting under its deafening roar. _

_It had not wandered off. If they had looked at it closely before what happened, they would have seen the state of its arms and neck. It had chewed its fingers in the stress until they were bleeding and there were bite-marks around its head in an uneasy choker. The wounds were as fresh as they were raw._

_But they did not notice. They did not notice the distant rumblings as they got onto the boat and sailed away; or, astounding due to the miracle that were its fingers, hear it pulling out some slab of something heavy. They did not see it climbing high up onto the bridge, like a clumsy sniper with the aforementioned chunk of dense matter, either._

_They only really noticed when it struck the boat and sent one of them flying into the air. _

* * *

><p><em>Two weeks.<em>

_The reason she knows this is because she has marked the wall beside her with a knife. The scratches are hard to make out in the dimming light, but she can feel them under her fingers. She traces the familiar patch of wall again; counting under her breath to make sure that she is right. There are fourteen of them, sure enough. _

_After dumping the body, she has not been outside once. She has not, so far, needed to. Whether or not she needs to, however, is not relevant. Rather, she has a craving, a vast one, to leave. But she is still too afraid, with the threats that are out there, to go it alone. So she keeps telling herself the same, reassuring two lies to help herself to continue on going. _

_The first one, that she will be rescued soon. _

_The second is that humans die of malnutrition and dehydration (discounting the effect of the plague that grasped them) within a month, so, with her rations, she can wait it out. _

_The former made her laugh with the extent of its ludicrousness. How could anyone else, with the boxes upon boxes stacked against the door, find out that she was here? Anyone who even came this way would most likely run in the opposite direction; what with the torrents of infected around Rayford. Francis and Louis were never going to come for her, either. They were safe now; in some place where the sand was golden and there was peace. They would have no need to. Why would they bother risking their lives again – especially as Louis had been injured so badly?_

_Neither would the stupid military (though she would rather have been shot than go with them). Hell, neither would the other four they had met. They had been heading in the opposite direction to them; out of Georgia and into (and beyond) Alabama. Besides, they were probably dead. After all, they had barely survived _themselves _with a veteran soldier in their group. Though she doesn't reiterate that idea to herself. She isn't in the frame of mind to be cynical and go through talking herself out of such ideas._

_The latter, on the other hand; is a much uglier but more convincing prospect of the direction her plans of survival are heading in. She could even do it. She has blasted a hole through the roof using a hunting rifle, so water, in such rainy weather, isn't a problem right now. Though not as if she'd needed to even do that – the roof of the safe house is leaky and fat droplets of rainwater continuously drip on her like bombs as she tries to sleep. CEDA had thought of everything besides an adequate solution to the actual zombie problem; going so far as to even provide water purification tablets (a 550g bottle) in their supply packs. She collects it in a huge water jug during the night and has stored it in the other,_ broken_ vending machine (on its back). It is, so far, about a quarter full and she scoops it out with an empty coke can when it's needed. _

_At the far corner of the room, near the other exit, she has made herself a crude space for waste; breaking one of the floor tiles and digging a hole into the earth underneath; which was in a thankful state of soft yielding. She has needed to go very little; due to her tensions, injury and rationing – though every time she has had to, it has made her feel violently ill with shame, like she is some sort of animal. She has no real _reason_ to feel any superiority at all to animals, but the human arrogance is still there; as it is with most of us. _

_(Remember the movies) _

_She thinks of her Dad –_

_(Remember the movies) _

– _and wonders what he would have done. Would he have looked after his own, like Bill kept on proclaiming, ever since their 'rescue' and then escape? Would he have stayed behind; dying with the others, so long as he helped them for as long as he could?_

_Why didn't she do that? Why hadn't she listened – and instead done what her conscience was screaming for her to do – as she held out her hand for the doctor who had saved their lives and was running along the train that night; only to witness his neck breaking like a twig as one of them grabbed hold of him and more piled on? _

_(Because I'm human and humans are cowards no matter how much their lives are really worth) _

_She had wanted to live. She still does. Looking to the future has manifested itself into something terrible for her mind to consider, so she does not. She looks to the wall; piled up with boxes and understands that her fear is still greater than her temptation to run and see how far she can get. Without human company, after all, there would be no point. _

_She will not let them have her. She would rather die here; as a last victory. She is not theirs to take, something she will be if she goes alone._

_She looks at the walls, reading them but letting the meaning of the words slip from her mind. _

_(The bridge is up)_

_Yeah, it sure as hell was. _

_(We are screwed)_

_Equally true. _

_The vodka bottle lay next to her, taunting her; like methadone to a heroin addict. She had finished it during the first week when the thoughts had come on in strong, nauseous waves. The dank, waste corner of the room smells strongly of her being ill; vodka ironically a medicine for the sickness, brought on by nerves, rather than being the cause, as it had so often been at her sorority gatherings in college. It stares up at her, twinkling in the light as if in laughter. _

_She shrieks and throws it, with an unknown fury that comes with one's blame at an inanimate object for self-made mistakes. It smashes against the wall in a loud firework of splintered diamonds. She is breathing heavily; tears streaming down her face again._

_(I want)_

_She thinks of something –_

_(I want him to come for me)_

– _that makes no sense and falls onto her back; deep green eyes fixed on the greywashed ceiling, its pipes and electrics peeking out like an oversized circulatory system. She supposes it is a natural thought that comes in loneliness, but she quickly tries to fight it. After it pulses up, tormenting her in its impossibility, it dies down after she realises how truly starving she is. _

_(Eat)_

_She picks up a tin of alphabet soup (her favourite on the rare, wonderful sick days she was able to scrounge off from school where she could be soothed and pampered while reading her modest child's collection of comic books) and pulls off the tab. She digs in greedily; almost desperately; drinking down the fluid and pulling the leftover pasta letters into her mouth with her fingers. After she is finished, she is not quite satisfied but is, at least, a little less hungry than before. She rubs her stomach and it even twinges less than it had during the last few days; from the pain of her wounds. She didn't think they would, but they were clearing up nicely – a pleasant surprise, for a change. _

_Her boredom in this place is terrible. There is nothing to read; nothing to watch, or any music to listen to. Every day that passes makes her brain feel fuzzed and soft, like old cheese. There is nothing to challenge her anymore. College is gone; lost forever under torrents of diseased flesh. _

_She curls up under her trusty blanket; wondering how long it will take her to break. Before she stares at the ground catatonically; an activity in which she is unknowingly doing more and more of, she takes one last look at the wall's messages – the usual ice forming along her spine. None of the authors were alive, anymore. She was sure of that. _

None _of them. _


	8. Chapter 8

_Barely a moment after the chopper lands, the soldiers come. He finds it hard to believe now; but back then, there seemed so many. Maybe because they wanted to believe that there were. Or, maybe just because they were scared and wanted something to hold on to. That was the temporary, false belief of their fears being over. It is hot and strong in their bellies, like good whiskey and they savour it in its macabre obscurity._

_However, they are ushered out of the chopper with a series of chilling commands; their weapons taken from them with the same language. The language that's heard on every report about wars involving the United States in the Middle East (well, not anymore). Unfriendly, calloused – but most of all, imperative. Terms, like 'Tango Mike' and 'Whiskey Delta' are heard by them for the first time; by people uncaring about their level of understanding._

_Slowly, the fear starts making its way in; the warm alcoholic sensation suddenly overtaken by a feeling of deep malaise. _

_They are sat down in a room with Captain Jennings. His eyes are the only feature they can make out behind his mask – and they are coursing with dislike. How nervous it makes them feel. _

_How nervous it makes _him_ feel, when he dares to ask about those masks – and the explanation comes. It makes him feel if he is no better than a murderer; a modern Typhoid Mary (Tango Mike), the proverbial fly-on-the wall that causes so many complications. _

_The fear strikes deeper still when the woman next to him, not quite thirty, asks a more courageous question still. _

_(So why didn't)_

_The captain laughs, almost mockingly –_

_(You just leave us to die?)_

– _at her enquiry. That makes him feel uncomfortable too, like, like –_

_(Something is not quite right with him) _

– _and he doesn't like it one bit. _

_Jennings explains that they need carriers; because they hold the cure and that it had been the President's final command and priority above eradicating any survivors in the contaminated zone. Thinking of the bodies of uninfected littering the ground of New Orleans, people who had only asked for help in ignorant innocence, makes him feel an even deeper misery in his guts. But above that, he feels anger for them that he knows will never be listened to. He thinks of asking about it, but figures it would be more beneficial not to. _

_Jennings goes on to explain what will happen to them as time passes. The base, he says, is only temporary; until a more secure stronghold can be created. They are to be flown out by chopper, when that occurs, to have their bloodwork examined and researched on. They will not be able, he continues, to leave, either; since they are a risk to the population of uninfected civilians. They are to remain there; with the cure being tested on them to observe its effectiveness and would only be let out when they were clean. _

_Nick goes for him. He is screaming in fury, the only time he has ever seen him do so; mouth spitting as he seethes his words. He is knocked unconscious by a soldier and is dragged away. They see him later with the bruise; when the four of them are lying down, naked; their bodies being prodded and probed by a doctor, not sensitive enough to give them his name. The procedure feels very unnecessary and is embarrassing for them all; especially for Rochelle. It is cold, restrictive and the man is generous with his hands, far too much and she winces and Ellis struggles against his bonds in fury –_

_The image dissolves._

_He is now standing on a hilltop, under a cherry tree. He is at a wedding. He can see the bride and groom, close and dazzling. They take their vows and he sees them turn to each other and embrace, their hands entwined._

_The preacher then points to him, an elderly man, with fiery eyes. He tries to ask what's wrong, but he realises in horror that no words come out. He clutches his throat and keeps trying, as the bride and groom turn around, slowly. _

_He tries to scream, but can't. _

_They have no faces. _

* * *

><p>Ellis awoke sharply from his unpleasant dream; panting as if he had been running. The sweat on his neck was cold; making him feel clammy. He shook his head; trying to get a grasp onto the idea of being awake. He didn't want to go back to sleep, but his body was dragging him down; as if it was made of lead.<p>

Eventually, Ellis's willpower overcame his body's complaints and he sat up, closing his hand on the bagful of rations he'd procured when taking his leave. He realised stupidly that the most likely cause for his exhaustion, not only due to the sleepless night he'd had, was most likely the fact that he couldn't recall the last time he'd eaten a decent meal. His only sustenance, for the last twenty four hours, had been the bottle of Miller Rochelle had given him some sixteen hours before he fell asleep in the van. His head was pounding heavily and his stomach rumbled at the idea.

The thought of food, however, made him feel somewhat worse. Ellis never ate when he was deep in thought. Instead, he drank down a bottle of water, swallowed four single-serving packets of instant coffee and half a packet of glucose pills. The mixture was unpleasant – the mixture of coffee and bitter orange turning to dirt in his mouth. His stomach immediately buckled, but he forced it to stay down stubbornly. He rubbed some toothpaste into his teeth and gargled with some more water; trying to get rid of the taste.

Even though the garage was notably dim, the light glaring in from the, small, dirty windows above the door told Ellis with some small triumphance that today was going to be a clear one in terms of weather, which relieved him. The infected disliked sunlight for some reason (most likely due to their swollen brains – although Ellis was not apt to know this) and tended to avoid going outside, if they could help it on such days. Though, mainly, he was really just glad to see some sunshine again after the shitty patch of stormy weather that had been the norm for the last week and a bit.

He just hoped to God that he didn't need to stop for supplies; because every shaded place, including stores, would be teeming with them – extra pissed from the light. The idea made his stomach quiver uneasily; doing a nasty turn and making him feel worse.

Ellis propped himself up against the wall of the van – his reward being an excruciating stab in his arm. He regretted now not fixing it up yesterday, as the burns hurt more than ever; each of them being ugly red hollows in his flesh. He'd wanted to tattoo his truck on that arm. Now it would just look dumb; what with those scars.

Though, at least it had been his _left _arm. He looked gingerly at the tribal pattern on his right and breathed a sigh of relief.

Ellis crept to the front of the van, looking around. To his relief, nothing seemed to be there; but he began to feel as if he'd stayed there too long. These days, he always felt like he had to keep moving; as if the ground was crumbling underneath him.

He grasped some materials from the back and got to work on fixing up his arm. A red puddle formed underneath him, frothing with antibacterial soap and the air in turn filling with low cursing. It hurt like hell. It always did, but it was one of the worse injuries he'd gotten since this whole shit-storm began. One of the burns was deep enough to need stitches – an activity which felt much longer than it could have been. He gritted his teeth; eyes running as he sewed his flesh together, much like he remembered his mother fixing clothes as a kid.

When it was over – Ellis sighed deeply; wiping his eyes with disgust. His arm felt far, far worse than it had before. He couldn't take pain medication for it either – the stuff he had handy was the prescription grade stuff that made you drowsy. Keith had been on it at least six times due to the accidents that had occurred involving him in the last three or four years – each pill making him about as high as a deer in the mating season.

He had to drive, after all.

His fatigues were covered in blood. He had changed in the van as he drove upriver; his jumpsuit in dire need of washing. He was almost irritated that he'd ruined them already and found it amazing how unscathed his T-shirt had been. It was stained, of course; but he'd barely gotten any blood on it at all. He figured awkwardly that most of the blood, as he'd fought over the last few weeks, must have gone all over his arms.

Thoughts of his arm turned to Polly and Ellis dwelled on them as he backed out of the garage and began his second, eternal drive. He used to love driving – even had a T-shirt dedicated to it – but he was beginning to feel that if he never saw another car again, he would be grateful.

The roads of Mississippi were mainly clear. Ellis encountered the odd infected here and there, but most of them didn't seem that interested in the van. They just stared at it, dumbly – perhaps thinking it was too fast moving to be a worthy target, as the ones that did break chase rapidly understood. Their small number was most likely because Ellis had decided to try as hard as he could to stay away from any major cities. Although he was aware that the van gave him a great advantage; he did not want to put himself in a situation where he had to deal with a hundred infected by himself, at once.

Or, at least, not if he didn't have to. He thought about it – and felt he had to be careful; much more than he had been in the past, if he was gonna make it alone.

He kept wondering why Polly kept popping into his head – instead of his mom, dad, Zoey, or even Keith – and it made him feel uneasy, like he was missing something he couldn't quite place. The sun was high in the sky – so Ellis figured regrettably that he'd have about twelve hours' time to think about everything, if he could drive effectively. He'd driven to New Orleans for Mardi Gras before with Keith and Dave – the first time he'd been away from Polly since they started dating – so he knew the route. It had taken him ten hours to cross Mississippi then; but the roads had been pretty crowded. With the desertion along highway 84 (he'd have taken 20, but wanted to steer clear of Jackson), he was confident it would take just over six, if he floored it and the roads remained good. He was intent on going today until he passed Birmingham, at least.

After around two months or so together, Ellis had gotten up the courage to ask Polly to come and see his band play. They'd gotten a gig in Duke's, after excessive begging and pleading since they started out early the year before. Of course, Mickey Duke (the owner) had refused outright; but they had persisted and pushed until he cracked and gave in, throwing down his apron in defeat and walking out with the words: "You're fucking organising it". It was really a long road to submission for him, as, after all; Mickey's best business came from Ellis's Dad, Keith's Dad and his two brothers: Mike (two years their senior and their 'beer guy') and Laurie (three years their senior, genius and both the singer and namesake of their band).

Their name sucked. Ellis sighed sadly when he told Polly what act she'd be looking for round town to tell other people (Ellis, believe it or not, had to actually pay for his own tickets and since she felt bad, she offered to help). He was incredibly impressed at the straight face she'd kept on until he walked out of the room for more drinks; after which it resonated with a spectacular fit of the giggles.

Laurie and the Cavemen specialised mostly in folk rock and occasionally heavier material if they were in the mood. They wrote all their own songs – lyrics being a poetic mixture of everybody's personal input – and composed their own music; all done in the back of Keith's garage, which he'd made into a 'studio' (namely a stack of instruments and some boxes to sit on). They were comprised of Laurie on vocals (and occasional percussion, namely on the egg shaker, cowbell or both), Keith on the drums (which Ellis attributed as the partial reason for Keith getting kicked out of his house some time later), Caz on guitar (Jack Carson – Laurie's college buddy) and Ellis on bass. Since Dave didn't have any so-called 'musical talent', he took it upon himself to oversee the whole project; acting as agent, manager and busboy.

Ellis loved his bass – almost as much as his pickup. He bought it for fifty bucks at a garage sale when he was sixteen and thought he'd just about made the best purchase of his life. His mother, however, had been less impressed and wouldn't let it in the house, as she called it 'ungodly'; but Ellis overheard her on the phone talking about termites later that evening. That was silly. Eudora (his SHINE bass, model unknown despite every effort searching for it) was old, but she was a darling. Play her all night long and she'd be just as sweet in the morning. Keith had opened his mouth to make a comment when Ellis had used that defence against getting a new model, but Laurie had slapped him about the head before he was able. Keith had never been an individual whose humour had much taste; although Ellis himself had to admit, now being a twenty three year old male, his wasn't much better. She was Jazz in style, varnished a dark red (although the last touch up had been sometime most likely around 1967) and Ellis had stuck stickers where her paintwork had peeled, which was pretty much everywhere. He'd started actually _collecting_ them. So far, to name a few of the more distinct ones, there was Hello Kitty holding a daisy, DBZ's Goku in Super-Saiyan mode, a 'STOP' sign (on top of which Keith had scratched 'Hammertime'), a Pokéball and one he didn't get with the idiom: '68 – I owe you one'.

To cut a long story short, the gig had not gone well. Ellis remembered only about thirty people turning up to start with – and by the time they'd finished only ten remained: a mixture mainly of sorry looking parents along with Polly and Sally. Regardless however, they had received a standing ovation from those wonderful ten who had stuck it out – although, when Ellis asked Polly what she thought of them, she just smiled and kissed him on the cheek. He knew she had been trying to be nice, but that made him feel a hell of a lot worse. He'd rather she'd hit him than take pity – especially as he'd been trying to impress her.

He felt mad at himself for getting annoyed at her though, even though he felt he hadn't let her know it. After all, it wasn't _her_ fault that they sucked. So, after the band meeting (where 'sucked' had been repeated many times) post-gig, Ellis had gone over to hers with a bunch of flowers; a fragrant variety of honeysuckle and roses that he'd picked from the larger of the garden trellises that were the pride and joy of his mother. He knew she'd kill him, but he didn't have time to go around searching for flowers, as it was getting late – and they were among the loveliest he'd ever seen.

He'd never been inside the house before. He'd dropped Polly off a few times, but she had never invited him in for some reason. She had always been more intent on coming to his instead; her excuse being her new-found love of Ellis's mother's pot roasts (which were admittedly fantastic). Ellis hadn't pressed her on it, partially because he didn't want to rush things, but also because he'd found that Polly was an incredibly private person. He didn't want to think that she was hiding herself away from him, but every time he met up with her at school, the students seemed to look at her in a funny way. It seemed as if she wasn't a part of them at all – and that something had happened which fired their scorn. He'd asked her what their problem was once – but all she said was that they were just some kids with personality deficiencies, at which he'd laughed.

She'd never told him that he couldn't call by, though. Ellis checked his watch and swallowed a little at the time; but there was a game on tonight that pretty much everybody in Georgia was watching. It was the Atlanta Braves against the New York Yankees – and it had just started. He realised with some irritation that he himself was missing it; but he hoped that, if they were all watching it at Polly's, they'd let him sit down and watch it with them with some good southern hospitality. Even if they were busy, he wasn't going to stay long, anyway. He just wanted to tell Polly he'd make it up to her, somehow.

He rang the bell, tentatively; brushing a hand through his thick hair (for good manners, he hadn't worn his hat). Soon after, a meek looking woman answered; who had Polly's eyes. She asked Ellis if she could help him; her voice as nervous as her stature. Ellis noticed something then that made him feel uncomfortable. She had a bruise on her right cheek that looked fresh. It was dark purple and looked sore.

"Ma'am, are you alright?" He asked her; to which she had shaken her head and smiled.

"Don't mind me," she said. "Just had a nasty fall in the kitchen before."

Ellis searched her eyes and in them, he saw pleading. He knew then that she had lied to him and wondered with swiftness about what he ought to do. Before he could say anything, however, the woman was moved aside by a pink-faced Polly. Ellis could hear swearing from within the house, the fabled game pausing somewhere and heavy boots making their way to the door.

"What are you doing here?" She hissed, looking more frightened than furious. It made _Ellis _frightened, looking at her like that. He couldn't recall when he'd seen –

- but he just had, hadn't he? He'd just seen the same look in Polly's mother's eyes. It terrified him and he was afraid he'd been blinded to something that should have stuck out like a sore thumb.

"I'm sorry," he said helplessly, not knowing what to do. She eyed the flowers in his hand and looked at him in a way that was heartbreaking. It was a sweet look with so much sorrow behind it – the look of a loyal dog who was about to be put down by the family who loved him. At that moment, Ellis wanted to take her by the hand and run with her as far as he could. He started making plans in his head, about what they'd need, how he'd break the news to his mom – a load of crazy things. As he looked at her in those few seconds; he knew he'd done something unspeakable.

Polly was moved aside by a large man in a plaid shirt; who he knew must be her dad. Ellis had braced himself, expecting a punch in the face – but he was instead welcomed into the household with smiles and cheer. The first thing that happened was an introduction that didn't help Ellis's fears. Polly didn't introduce Ellis as 'her boyfriend'. She introduced him as entirely someone else instead when she took the flowers from him.

"Daddy, this is Mr McKinney. He's a friend of mine from the auto shop, you know, the guy who fixed your car? I told him mama was unwell, so he wanted to stop by and cheer her up."

Her father nodded to this, but didn't say anything in comment. Instead, he invited Ellis to sit down and have a beer as a thank-you for his hard work; which Ellis refused politely, saying that he had an early night. Her father said it was a shame and then, followed by something even more disturbing that made gentle, laidback Ellis's blood boil.

"Good thing you came after dinner. We'd have had nothing to feed you, as Arlene burned the steaks – ain't that right, honey?"

He slapped her on the ass and Polly's mother nodded, weakly. After the door closed behind him, Ellis knew they would be watching him leave. He acted casually, driving up to a part of the road which they wouldn't be able to see. He couldn't go. He had to know for certain if he thought what was going on, was actually going on. He had stayed low on the dewy grass until he had gotten underneath the pane of the parlour window; where he could hear everything with agonising clarity.

Polly's father asked her what that was about. She told him that she didn't know; that he was just a friend passing by. Her father told her, in a voice that was soft and dangerous, that he knew she was lying, getting in late at night and not telling him where she was. Polly didn't stand down. She was yelling now, her mother telling them to quiet down and being ignored.

"I have class, dad! I have finals to study for and college to go to! That's where I've been, for God's sake! Can't you ever lay off me, just once?"

"Don't give me that shit, Patricia!" Her dad thundered, furiously. "You've been keeping that from me, haven't you? All this time I've paid for your private tuition, your meals, your car and your clothes and you're out, repaying _me _by fucking some goddamn hick _mechanic_?"

He hit her. Ellis heard it; a thunderclap against a wall of refusing screams. He did it three times and each time he heard it, he fought against himself from smashing open the window and beating the motherfucker's head in with whatever blunt object he could get his hands on. He had to get her out of there and he had to wait until she ran out; as he knew she would. He tasted blood in his mouth and realised he was biting down so hard on his hand, to keep from screaming in his abysmal torment of guilt and fury.

He heard Polly running and the latch on the door being fiddled with – so he clambered over to the large oak at the bottom of the garden and hid behind it. He heard the footsteps turn to wet thuds on the grass as she ran, bounding the corner past Ellis. Her father did not follow.

"Nowhere you can run, forever, Patricia," he said in a tone of assured victory before he spat out his final insult of the night, "you numb cunt."

Then the door slammed closed and it was over.

Polly hadn't run far. She had collapsed against the garden fence of a house half a block away and was sobbing. Ellis made his way over to her and took her in his arms, holding her on the filthy sidewalk as she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, oh Polly, I am, I'm so sorry..." he kept whispering to her over and over again, arms around her tightly. They stayed that way a while until she moved away from him and Ellis was able to see her face.

Both of her cheeks were a furious red; a swelling just above her brow. As Ellis looked at her and the malice bubbled inside him, he couldn't help thinking that breaking in the window and just going for it wouldn't have been such a bad idea. He brushed her hair behind her ear and kissed her temple softly.

"I wish you hadn't seen that," Polly said, looking almost ashamed of herself. "He ain't normally like that, he ain't –"

Ellis had shaken his head in reply – to which he knew Polly understood that it was no good trying to explain things to him. He piggybacked her to the pickup and sat her in the passenger seat; after which, he took her for a drive.

It had been a silent one; that he wasn't sure would ever end. He didn't know what she thought of him, about how he had acted. He felt bitter in wishing he could have done more for her but he could never say that, if he tried at that point. He was saving the talking until they were parked.

Ellis drove back to his place, but didn't stop in the drive; as his mother would come out and ask what was going on. Instead, he parked in the small wood at the foot of their property; around a hundred yards or so from the chicken coops. As soon as he stopped, he looked at her, right in the eyes and held her hand in his.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugged, helplessly.

"I didn't know how to."

Questions flooded from Ellis. He knew he was sounding like an interrogation officer, but he knew her and knew that it was something she had to – no, craved – to let out. It had been a secret she'd kept for so long. Soon the trickles of response from her turned into streams as she told him everything; all of the sadness that had been. She told him how she was terrified for her mother and how her mother was terrified for her; creating a vicious circle of silence. She told him about the belt her father used normally, aiming for her torso so people wouldn't see. And, finally, she told him the reason she had missed a year of school. To do so, she did something that Ellis kept telling her was unnecessary, but she did anyway.

She got out of the car and into the back of Ellis's truck – where she showed him her scars. Puckered marks all over her arms, where she'd taken heroin for a brief time when she thought her father had truly lost it. Polly traced his fingers over each of them, he listening to her words and trying very hard indeed to keep it together. The scrape where he had pushed her over when she was three across her left breast, the silvered lesion where her collarbone had broken through when she was ten –

The wound on her side which he'd inflicted when he'd found out about her doing drugs. It curved up; a white scimitar, the worst of the bunch. She told him that he'd held her down and branded her with his fire poker. Her injuries were so bad that time, she had to stay in hospital for two solid months in agony with broken ribs and a broken cheekbone. Her father had told the doctor that she'd been in a car crash because she was smoking. Polly bitterly said she would have told the truth if she could have done, but it hurt her too much to speak with her ribs.

Ellis kissed each and every one of them. She had pulled off her sweater – which he now realised was just a sheath of deception to hide herself from the world – so he could see them all in the dim. He held her again when she'd finished her stories; her soul spent on him.

"I hate it," she breathed, wrapping her arms around herself. Ellis grasped her wrists gently and held them, caressing her palm with his thumb.

"I still think you're beautiful, darlin'," he remembered saying, not knowing if it was enough, so adding more in the hope he wasn't rambling. "That ain't ever gonna change."

He told her then, for the first time, that he loved her – something that had only made her weep harder. He shouldn't have done really – as he wasn't sure whether he loved her fully in the important way – but nonetheless, liked her to bits and cared a mountain for her, which he figured, not knowing true love before, seemed enough for him. He thought of apologising again, for being so sudden with it, but when she looked up at him, she was smiling. He smiled back at her, before she threw her arms around him and kissed him. Fire brewed in his belly of a different kind; of an adult, inappropriate nature but hopelessly inevitable. He began apologising awkwardly with what he felt was his hopeless manhood, but she had cut him off with a gasp as she – surpassing every session of heavy petting they'd ever had by a wide margin – took it in her mouth.

They had made love for the first time that night. Ellis's body was in it, but his mind wasn't. She was insistent and eager; but his thoughts were filled with her words of the night and his own fear of hurting her, or taking advantage. Her body squirmed and twitched as he moved inside her, words of encouragement rising and falling, telling him he mustn't stop, he mustn't – until he reached a point where his own did the same and he couldn't if he'd wanted to. Her nails bit into his back and she let out a cry; her breath teasing his ear. He was afraid, being in too deep, but his eyes rolled upward as his muscles moved in ways he'd never before felt – and he let out a yell of his own as he took her, sating her as he came.

He didn't move from her for a long time; her arms firmly clasped around him as they panted in the dark, warm together in the cool air. Her auburn curls smelled of flowers; their softness a whisper on his cheek. When he did move, he lay by her side and kissed her, softly – repeating what he had before. He asked her if he'd hurt her. She said he hadn't.

As they dressed, dawn came and by the time they had finished, walking together hand in hand towards the house, Ellis's mother had woken and, as usual, had automatically made cocoa.

There was no dawn, now. Sunset had come; the natural alarm bell telling Ellis that he should stop. He had gotten past Birmingham and reached his goal – as well as nearing towards the coast. There couldn't be any more than two hundred or so miles left, even if he was going to skeet around Atlanta, where he'd left the Jimmy Gibbs Jr. in amongst the road chaos. His body was begging him to eat; stomach cramping with hunger. He looked wistfully over to a village on the right about a mile off the main highway; thinking of rest and knowing how he couldn't.

He pushed harder on the accelerator and the van jolted from steady to speed. He ground his teeth against the pain inside him and pushed along, popping another two glucose pills as he did so with water. His cap fell off onto the pile of weapons next to him; his wavy hair unruly with unkempt growth.

He didn't remember most of the next fifty miles.


	9. Chapter 9

The final headcount had come in. There were ten soldiers left alive – six of them being badly injured, including one that had a gunshot to the arm, who had been found last; shaking terribly inside the pantry next to the kitchen. As the doctor tended to the ones who were worst off, the three survivors had called the remaining seven in for a meeting; led by Corporal Bennett, as the soldiers respected him and their morale was understandably very low.

They had to start somewhere, so Nick began by asking them something that was necessary, but would not be received well.

"What do you know?"

There was quiet in the room, until one tentative hand raised. Rochelle pointed to the man; the top of whose arm was bandaged.

"Private Jones, ma'am," said the soldier. His voice was very young with Cajun undertones – she could still hear cracks in the words where it had not yet quite broken. It made her almost sad for him.

"So, what can you tell us?" She asked.

"I been readin' those there CEDA reports," he said. "Summit abou' these, um, mutations no, chérie?"

Nick clicked his fingers, being his usual, overdramatic, sarcastic self.

"Yes, yes! _Very_ good, Private! So, now... can any of you actually, well, you know, tell us what _sort_ of things you saw out there? Were there, oh, say, fat ones, skinny ones, some as big as your –"

"Shut the fuck up, Nick." Rochelle seethed, after which he fell silent.

"No no," said another soldier from the back, perhaps not getting the sarcasm, "he's on to something. There were these blob-like ones that –"

"We call 'em Boomers," said Coach, "call them Bravos if you so choose – I know the army goes for the NATO alphabet a lot. They are most likely the least of your troubles in comparison to the other 'Specials' on the menu, however..."

It took about an hour and a half, during which two of the three soldiers from the treatment room limped in, looking in bad shape. The three of them, aided by Bennett taking audience questions and poorly drawn diagrams by Coach (the best artist; as he often had to draw anatomical features for Health class at the high school where he taught) went through the main, more common six mutations – now codenamed uselessly Bravos, Hotels, Sierra Tongues, Juliets, Sierra Necks and Charlies. They, of course, had saved the most dangerous two for last.

"Now," Nick continued, a grin on his face just to show how much he was enjoying this, "we come to the 'Tank', or for you lovely people, 'Tango'."

He pulled down the diagram. One of the soldiers got up and walked out, murmuring hysterically to himself. Bennett ran out and brought him back; talking to him in a soothing tone, a glass of water now in his hand. Nick cleared his throat impatiently.

"Whether it's something to do with genetics or not – I have no fucking clue, being neither a doctor nor a scientist – every one we've encountered has always been male. This makes not the slightest difference however; as I'm fairly sure none of you are going to give a rat's ass about tits when you're being crushed to death by one. They are possible to outrun and are slowed by fire and machine guns – but, on the other hand, are very capable of crushing walls, flipping cars and pummelling you about a hundred feet in the air. They are extremely difficult to take down and require at least three people to make a clean kill."

A gruff-voiced soldier in the back started coughing; presumably to cover up laughs. Nick walked over to him; the tip of his nose only about an inch away from his mask.

"Anything to say, buddy?" Nick asked him, more calmly than he was feeling.

"Are you honestly serious?"

"As the plague, motherfucker."

"Then why haven't we seen one?" He retorted callously. "Surely, with the number of Whiskey Deltas that poured in this place earlier –"

"– if there had been a Tank," Nick interrupted smoothly, "you would most likely be dead. We were very lucky that one didn't turn up."

The soldier went quiet and Nick returned to the front, muttering under his breath. He couldn't see Bennett's eyes under his mask, but he could tell he was glaring at the soldier.

"Any other problems?" Nick asked the audience, his tone challenging. Nobody raised a hand or said a word.

"Good," Nick finished dismissively, talking as he backed towards his chair. "That's round about it for the Tank. See one, you run like hell, firing at it or, even better, set it alight. "

He gave a thumbs up to Coach, who sighed, getting up.

"We will finish now," Coach continued, stepping forward in place of Nick and pulling down the final diagram, "with the most hazardous mutation we've so far encountered – namely, the Witch, or 'Whiskey'."

Bewildered silence; so much so that even Bennett expressed his confusion.

"But she just looks like a normal girl," he said, scratching his head. Nick snorted at him.

"Yeah, I know," Coach retorted, "which I figure is a mistake an awful lot of people have made. See, she cries. Non-stop. I don't know whether she uses it so people think she's human so that she can draw in her victims, or whether it's because she's truly depressed. If you ever hear crying, no matter how hard it may be not to, you've got to stay away from it."

"Or what?" One of the soldiers asked, shakily.

"If you disturb her," Coach said, "she will chase after you. She will almost always find you. If she does, she is very, very capable of killing you. Her claws seem to be tipped with some kind of agent that causes temporary paralysis. If she scratches you and you can't move, she will try her very best to rip you to pieces. Best you can hope for is to call out and pray to the good Lord someone comes running."

A period of quiet amazement again. Coach tore down the diagram and turned to the eight soldiers.

"That's it. Pretty much all you need to know. Biggest hint I can give for fighting them? Never, ever go anywhere alone. It's very hard to cope by yourself."

The three of them sat down as the third soldier wandered in. Half of his face was bandaged and he was hobbling; being propped up against the doctor. He wasn't wearing a mask.

"You're a –" Nick started, bewildered. The young man glanced back at him absently.

"A carrier, yes," he said, his tone almost dreamy. "I'm lucky."

"Did you hear any –"

"All I needed to," he said, quivering violently as he slumped over; a spare chair being brought for him. The doctor was rubbing his back as he cupped his elbows in his hands, as if he were chilled.

"What's wrong with him?" Asked Nick, almost amusedly. The doctor helped to set the boy down. Ignoring Nick, he turned to look at Bennett; his voice rich in dread.

"We can't call out yet," he said, looking around anywhere except at Bennett. "The radio's in worse shape than we thought. Applegate here says it IS fixable, but it's going to take him about six hours to do the job because it's delicate and he can only see out of one eye. Copter will take about two hours after that, depending on its availability as usual. If we can't get a link, then we'll have no choice but to try and pile into the three jeeps we have left, since the armoured vehicle has been stolen by Tango Mike Bravo. If that many were attracted to an alarm going off for ten minutes, then I dread to think how many are on their way after the magnitude of that explosion earlier – so, with all respect intended, I doubt we'll get far that way."

Nick stole a glance at Rochelle. Her lips were pursed and she had clasped her hands between her knees. She looked almost cat-like, every muscle taut in her stress. They had been so used to being able to move freely; their decisions made so that they were never truly stuck anywhere. He could understand it – she was free spirited and independent, strong as hell even – and the claustrophobia was sinking in. Ellis had felt it and seen it coming. She had been the one to speak to him most about it that night (she had told Nick out of concern later). He wondered if she regretted not being as encouraging – and felt he wanted to hold her. He went over to her and rubbed her shoulder. She smiled at him, something that did a number on him that was something similar.

There was another way of outside contact however, on Coach's belt. The walkie-talkie was good for long distances; as it was top of the line. They hadn't mentioned it, though – partially out of fear for Ellis's safety; but also because the trust barrier had not yet been broken. It was a mutual, if not discussed, understanding – and they would only reveal it if they had no other choice. It could be the golden ticket they needed if Ellis had been rescued before they had been.

The doctor looked as if he was glaring at the three of them, now – to which Nick glared back. It wasn't their fault, after all. They had to get rid of the infected somehow. The soldiers certainly weren't capable of doing it. Hell, did they want them to invite them over for dinner composed of brains to discuss their interpersonal relationship problems?

"We need then," said Bennett tentatively after a pause for thought, "to separate into teams. Tango Mike Delta, that side of the room."

He made a gesture that split Coach off with roughly a third of the room, to which he nodded. Included were the doctor and Private Jones, the Cajun. Bennett did the same for Nick and Rochelle (including himself in Nick's team) and begun formulating a plan as he did so.

"Tango Mike Delta's team ought to re-check the area for infected. Once the area is deemed clear, we can begin setting up a safety perimeter using whatever pressure – activated explosives we have left. Tango Mike Alfa's team should, while this is going on, attempt to create a place of safety which we can fall back to if the outside perimeter becomes overcrowded and dangerous. Check the armoury and mess for supplies. My team, finally, included in which I have placed Communications Technician Applegate and Vehicle Technician Lowry, ought to continue work on the radio, check the condition of the jeeps and help move supplies, if needed. Aim for the area to be as secure as possible in thirty minutes, beginning now."

As they left and began working on their respected posts, the soldiers all wondered why they were listening to a Corporal, when four of the ten were higher-ranked than him. They supposed they would have done the same, so had no real right to complain and kept begrudgingly silent. Rank didn't matter much anymore in the war they were in.

Meanwhile, beyond the wall, the stillness was beginning to break.


	10. Chapter 10

_For her, the transition between air and water is immediate. She cannot recall the time in between. All she remembers is waking up in the wet; the dark waves fighting to swallow her. Her head feels as if it is splintering with pain; into a muddy concoction of marrow and tissue. She tries to cry out, but her mouth is full of water. If she could look up, she would be able to see where the missile struck; the planks of the deck either missing or splintered. _

_All she can see is the dark._

_She hears someone crying out her name. She thinks it is Louis, but she is not sure. It could be her own mind; playing tricks on her. She tries to cry out again; but the movement of her facial muscles causes her head to feel as if it is splitting again. The sensation rises and dies as the waves do, her numbness and sensitivity at a bitter war someplace near her brain._

_She can only sink into the depths; the sensation and fear of drowning overcoming and powerful. The waves are rolling up and falling; the wind strong. She looks up into the sky; a lightning bolt flickering for an instant – the thunder overcome by the howling air. She hears gunfire now – more lightning flashing on and off in the night and the thunder follows – something large behind on the horizon giving in to the assault. _

_(It must have been weak)_

_The last thing she remembers before she wakes again, is Francis's voice, a murky apparition which she hopes, as she sinks; nasal passages filling as she is smothered by the pillow of the ocean, is not real. _

"_We can't find her here, Louis, in this storm," he yells over the din. "If we stay here, we'll all die. She's gone, my friend. She's gone."_

* * *

><p><em>She awakes to the same sound of gunfire. For a little while, she feels she is still dreaming but as the water from the ceiling trickles and drips onto her forehead; what she sees becomes sharper rather than fuzzing away into first grey and then black. It is all around her, like buzzing bees. <em>

_She sits up, still weak with hunger, but feeling stronger in herself than she had in about a fortnight. Her wounds crackle pensively; the scabs threatening to split as she pulls herself up on the ground, her legs doing little to support her. She feels them buckling; an explosion of stars in her vision from the dizziness that befalls her and grabs hold of the table. Her hand meets the M16 she used when she first got here and she picks it up; feeling its weight. It is a cold, hard familiarity in her grasp which she hadn't realised how much she missed. It has saved her life and to it, she is grateful, as if it could think._

_Incredibly, she thinks seriously about going out there. The commotion that started is still ongoing and getting louder; getting closer. She also realises that it could be a choice that may cost her. Not just her life – but her freedom. The fact that it could be the military made her trepid – the idea of her being locked away in a room, life threatened as it was at Millhaven or worse, a prisoner, a lab rat –_

– _or, she could stay here. Stay here forever in the dank and the mould; food supplies nonexistent, water supplies never reliable and forever turning sour and mildewy. She could stay here in this safety, in the depths of her thoughts, where she would turn to nothing but sinew and madness. The bones of her hips are protruding already; her once tight jeans loose around them. She rests the barrel of the M16 and leans on it like a cane._

_She would lose her soul here. She could die out there, but at least she would have a chance. Here, there is nothing for her except her guilt, her thoughts and her eventual death; waiting patiently for something that would take longer than the food she has left. There had been less than she thought; when she looked in the boxes filled with tins today. Many of them were paraffin or motor oil; two things she could burn but not drink. She would have cried, if she'd had the energy to. She thanks herself for being so careful in the first place with what food she had scrounged. _

_No, she would leave here. If rescue was there, she would go willingly. If it was the military, she would run. Let them shoot her. After that, it wouldn't matter. She doesn't want to keep on going anymore if they are there; her lonely existence hollow and singular, like a discarded snail shell. _

_One inches its way along the damp boxes of paint cans covering the door; eyeing her dumbly. She looks back at it and smiles; the gunshots getting louder still and begins to pull the boxes back as the rain continues to keep dripping stubbornly from the hole in the roof. It takes much effort for her and she feels several of her natural sutures tearing; each one a sharp gouge in her side. Her lips are in a grimace as she pulls and tugs; hardly daring to believe how many of her muscles are slack and disobedient._

_She pulls the last box back, complete with snail and takes a look outside. The road is clear; the cobbles covered in moss and puddles. The outside calls to her, beckoning as the fresh air sweeps in, the damp cool swallowing the abysmal perfume of her prison. She picks up the snail and sets it free, letting it sleuth between her fingers and out into the street; where it looked back at her, bobbing its eyes gratefully. _

_She fully arms herself. In her right holster, is her Magnum; the other, the hunting knife she used to open cans. At her side, is her M16, still propping her up. The only thing she does not bring is her hunting rifle, but if she could have carried it; she would have done. Its sight blinks up at her blindly, as if she had betrayed it. To her, there is no point in trying to fight long distance, anyway; as the shit is going to come at her from all sides, close and far. This is the only gun she trusts to help her fight it._

_Pulling off the bar, she takes her first steps into the night. It is incredibly dark in the street; the only working streetlight dim and flickering. It had been her solitary friend in the dusk; blinking its orange glow between the boxes when she hadn't dared keep the light of the room on. She feels a little strange, knowing she is to be without it. The fresh breeze comes and chills her; her arms rapidly producing gooseflesh. Her jacket is no good to wear anymore, the attack which caused her wounds leaving it in shreds. Her white vest is not much good either, however; but it will have to do. Not much of it is white any longer though; the centre sprayed with red-lined gashes. She looks down at her stomach past her breasts and can see the homemade bandages she has made. They are also becoming scarlet; her strained movements confirming her worry about her reopened wounds. _

_She limps through the warehouse; her lungs huffing and puffing deeply. If she were out with the few friends she'd had, on a night like this one, she would have feared that her airways would close; as they sometimes did when her asthma from childhood occasionally came back to bite her on the ass. Now, as she drags herself forward, stopping only to stab one of the infected, a young woman, through the throat; it is the least of her concerns. They do though, a little and she immediately begins finding it almost as hard to breathe as she did when she was in the ocean._

_The gunfire is deafening now. She sees the scene at the top of the hill. Torrents of them are screeching and running past her. She fires out at them with her M16, to give a signal, which she imminently realises is a stupid thing to do. _

_Several of them turn around and look at her; their yellow eyes furious and greedy. They begin to run towards her and her eyes widen in horror. She starts to run, but she knows she won't be able to get far. They catch up to her almost instantly and she begins to fight them off as their punches and kicks rain down on her, stabbing and stabbing with her combat knife, screaming for them to get off, just get off –_

_Headlights block her vision as more gunshots ring out; their bodies falling beside her. She is badly hurt, so much so that she cannot get out of the way of the vehicle coming her way. She waits for the pain of the bullets to come rising up, but it doesn't come. Instead she hears the screech of tyres, the lights going another way as it pulls up, force nearly causing it to topple. _

_(Blood oh God) _

_She's bleeding badly. She drops her gun and falls, closing her eyes as she relaxes into a state of semi-consciousness; pain bursting up her leg from connecting with the cold metal of her Magnum. Her energy is spent and all she has left is that to breathe. She knows it is the military. She knows that she is going to die. But through all of that, she feels it is worth it, to have at least tried. She is willing to pay the dues she owes. _

_She expects a stretcher, but it doesn't come. Strong hands do, instead, shaking her gently. They lift her, holding her up; one of her arms draped around broad shoulders, one arm she doesn't own around her waist. Her sides strain and ache but she isn't with it enough to really feel much. A familiar voice, one she knows but is not quite conscious enough to place, is talking to her. It is first panicked, but then encouraging, telling her that it's going to be okay, that she's going to be alright now, that he won't let her go... _

_(Daddy)_

_She tries to thank him, or say something, but her lips move and no words come. Her throat is bone dry; her fluids lost in blood. She is set down in the van, collapsing onto a pile of something soft, probably clothes. They soothe her aching muscles, a gratuitous change from the wet road or the damp floor where she had spent most of the past two days. The hands come back, pulling them around her, saying something about getting her help and she opens her eyes; the world disoriented as the doors of the vehicle close behind her, a flash of fatigues coming into view for just a second before they do. _

_She hears the ticking of a pipe bomb as the vehicle begins to move, gaining speed, the haste of the driver obvious. She tries to ask if she can help or if he is alright, but she only croaks. _

_The dim fades to darkness again as the explosion comes and she accepts it generously, even if death lurks within it. _

_For Zoey Carmichael, for the first time, feels she is home._

* * *

><p>At quarter to three in the morning, Ellis had pulled into Rayford. The silence and abandon from driving had been vanquished even on the way to entry. Many were staggering along the street and as soon as they saw the van, began pushing against it relentlessly, like protesters. They surrounded it, clambering on the hood and battering at the windscreen. One of their faces pushed against it, leaving a murky residue. Ellis winced in disgust and turned on the wipers. They beat against its nose and cheeks, causing it to shriek angrily and pull away.<p>

He realised very rapidly that there were far, far too many to drive through. He would have to do something to get rid of them, if he didn't want to lose the truck. It was armoured well, but he couldn't put down the window covers. Not if he still wanted to drive. He checked the rear view. Many were beginning to swarm toward him as the vehicle forced its way down the street; suspension springs jangling as the wheels conquered body after body. Ellis just kept going. He needed to get to the crossing, where he could make his move. He saw the bridge a short way away; at roundabout three hundred metres and felt a sensation of success.

He was close now. He had found the X on his map that he had been looking for; somewhere that he had crossed the south to find. He was not about to give it up.

In a wave of bodies, Ellis reached the crossing and, with a yell, twisted the steering wheel around as fast as he could – his muscles tight with determination. Blood spattered the windows grimly like heavy rain and was washed away by the water of the storm as the van span in circles, pushing back and crushing the infected under the wheels. He knew he shouldn't have done, but he felt proud of himself. He knew it was wrong but couldn't help, after everything, but enjoy it; their cries and grunts of pain a sensation to his ears that was almost orgasmic. He hated what they had become and what they had done to his friends, his family – but somehow, just as bad, was the fear they had invoked in him. He had been so afraid to leave the confines of the military complex, so afraid to face the music again. He was forcing himself to enjoy something that would summon a horror enough to bring insanity to the average or cripple the strongest. It was somehow easier than feeling their pain. His tyres skidded on the grisly remains of the dead as more moved in and he wound round the window, cocking his gun.

He let out a spray of bullets with one hand; his other still firmly on the wheel, on the ones that had been pushed back and stunned. He did not dare release either and was terrified of the thought. From above, he figured with a knowingly tasteless guffaw that the van must look something like a Catherine Wheel. Here, however, in Ellis's view, it was much more like a blender. The windows were being coated in blood faster than the rain could wash them off.

It was only when all the infected near to him were gone that Ellis could look outside again. The rain pattered down, streaking the viscous gunge on the windshield. Much of it had spattered Ellis's weapons on the passenger seat; a sticky mixture of dirt, blood and flesh. He drove forward; setting the crossing alight with a Molotov. The dim of the streets in the night immediately brightened and Ellis could see more of them ahead of him, swarming closer.

That was when he heard gunshots.

His body went slack, determination and will forgotten for a brief moment as his brain fought to struggle with that fact.

_Someone is still alive._

Sure enough, he heard shrieks in the distance. But they weren't just shrieks, they were –

"Goddamn words," Ellis breathed, horrified. "Oh, shit –"

It was a girl, and she was screaming for help.

He couldn't afford to wait any longer. He drove forward; crashing through a barricade as he headed down the hill toward the bridge. He could see them now. Some of them had clustered around someone who was fighting desperately to hang on.

Ellis threw his final jar of bile towards the bridge. The ones rushing toward him ran for the bait as he fired towards the ones surrounding her, where they fell down, like meaty petals. He skidded to a halt in front of her, just in time to see her fall to the ground.

The infected, for the moment, were ignoring them, but he knew they didn't have much time. He got out of the vehicle and headed toward the girl who had just fallen. At that moment he was terrified to touch her, in case the worst had happened.

_I could have gotten out and got them off her without firing_, he thought, horrified. _Oh, God, what if I_–

He stopped when he saw her face, realising who it was. Even when he did, he didn't believe it. He thought he must be mistaken at first, but when he did touch her, turning her over, he knew he was not. She let out a hack of agony as he did and his hands fell away, devastated.

_Zoey_.

He covered his mouth, staggering backward. Ellis ground his teeth; a horrified smile spreading over his features like a crass Glaswegian caricature. His mind was finding it difficult to cope looking at her. He let out a dry sob that sounded almost like a laugh, fighting hard to pull himself together.

_What is she doing here?_

"God, Zoey," Ellis whispered, his voice thick as he shook her as lightly as he could, "for the love of God girl – "

Her head lulled to one side and she let out a sigh, her lips moving. She was alive, thank Jesus, she was alive. Her hand reached up as if to touch him but fell back, the blood from her belly smearing her palm.

She was hurt. So terribly, terribly hurt. He looked at her, thinking of the day he'd chosen to part ways and felt awful.

_I should have stayed with her. _

"It's gonna be okay," he kept saying, over and over again, not really understanding his own voice. He linked his arm under her and pulled her up, supporting her against him as he carried her. "You're okay now girl, I'm not gonna let you go, I ain't –"

Yells and cries exploded in the air. He knew the bile had run out, but they were at the truck now. They were going to get out of this one. Ellis didn't dare let himself celebrate, though. He lay her down in the back as gently as he could on top of the clothes and blankets he had back there, pulling them round her. He had felt how freezing she was when he had carried her; soaked through with rain. He hoped they would do. He wanted to touch her face, but with her injuries, didn't dare after carrying her, in case it made her jolt.

"I'ma gonna getcha help, darlin'," he whispered to her. "Hang on in there."

Closing the doors behind her, he turned towards the horde; in their dozens, running toward him uphill; slipping and sliding on the bodily residue coating the road. Ellis flicked his Zippo for the last time he would tonight and threw a pipe bomb without looking. It struck one of them with a fleshy thump and they crowded around it as he ran to the front and got in, flooring the gas.

The resulting explosion lifted up the back of the truck, propelling it forward. He heard Zoey grunt in the back seat when it fell and flinched with guilt.

His purpose was stronger now; his mind overflowing with certainty. He knew he had to get her somewhere, soon – and also knew exactly where they could go. The only place where he knew they could be temporarily safe, until they could figure a better stronghold. The only place he couldn't stop thinking about – and the only place, in his mind's eye, that he knew how to get to from here, or from anywhere. He looked back at her as her head rolled in slumber; the primal need for protection setting in.

* * *

><p>Two hours later, he could see the outskirts of Savannah on the horizon; familiar to him as if he had never left. The view caused his insides to swell, shrinking as he heard her groans growing weaker; breathing more laboured. He had yammered to her the whole way, talking, saying whatever her could just to keep her going, feeling stupid as he did and praying it was doing good. She had been strong, so strong –<p>

_Jesus, let her be alright_.

Twenty minutes after that, as he carried her inside the shadow left of his familiar old farmhouse, a hand grasped his.


	11. Chapter 11

In the six-hour wait as Applegate fixed the radio, they had secured the perimeter. They had placed mines around the main building in clusters; a grand total of twelve (the only ones that they had managed to acquire) and had marked them out with white crosses; making them easier to see and also, in the event that they were not able to get a chopper out of the place, helping in ensuring their escape via jeep would be less painful. They had also found some spare truck batteries and rigged them up to the wire circling the top of the wall, placing the activation switches in the two guard towers either side of the complex. Applegate, having been the one who had done it as a request during his work on the radio, explained to them that it would not last long, as the currents that would be induced by the circuit he had created would cause the battery to rapidly drain. It was a weapon, therefore, that could not be wasted and was to be preserved until they needed in desperately. The two miniguns also set up in the towers were no exception to this either, but had been thankfully reserved, holding one thousand rounds each for when the horde was at its thickest. They could not be used non-stop, but could be released in bursts to prevent, hopefully, a wall breach. The walls were made of brick, not metal which served as an additional danger when it came to Tanks. One break – and the numbers that would be able to crawl through –

None of them knew how many, or wanted to.

And, the infected were swarming rapidly. It was just after the complex had been declared clear by Coach's group when they began climbing over the walls. Right now, it was only one or two at a time, easily fended off by the two marksmen who had been designated a position where Coach had been a few hours before. Soon there would be dozens, then tens of dozens. They were like bacteria; forever regrouping after being destroyed and coming back stronger, more deadly. They were relentless, serving to urge as a biological alarm about how much they needed to get out of there – and how quickly. The dead soldiers were in a heap against the back wall of the base out of view, near the sign of 'Cliff's Edge', the camp's befitting name. They had chosen to face the sign out to the Gulf of Mexico; now black in the night. When the sun rose in an hour or so, they would have a view fit for kings. The ones who still lived had spoken short prayers for the dead, before rushing off in their groups, having no time yet to mourn.

The major shock had come when they realised how much ammo was really left. Coach and Nick realised rapidly that they had made the quite stupid assumption, as they were so used to being in such a state of mind, that the three of them would be the only ones using the ammo for some reason, even though it was obviously not true. Of course, for three people, such an amount of ammo that was in the armoury looked something like a treasure trove; securing their ensured safety and freedom. However, when they dished it out, between themselves and the ten remaining soldiers, it amounted to nothing more than a metaphorical few dollars apiece. Rochelle looked at what she had been given and stared back at Nick, dumbfoundedly.

"Is this honestly it?"

Nick shrugged, vicariously guilty on behalf of the shitty organisation of the U.S. Military.

"When it's dished out evenly, pretty much, yeah. You'd have more sniper rounds, but two of the soldiers are sniping from above at the moment while we regroup and figure out how we're gonna hold out after the radio's been fixed. Looked like there was a hell of a lot more in there when me and Coach first went in than there actually was. We're just gonna have to make do, sweetheart. I don't like it much either."

Rochelle scowled at the small pile of ammo and supplies. In it was her M16, seven magazines (amounting to three hundred and fifty rounds), a sniper rifle with thirty rounds, two frag grenades, one bile jar, three Molotovs, a machete and shot of adrenaline. It might have been enough to get her from one place to the next as they had run from town to town, hitch-hiking on whatever means on transportation they could get their hands, but now, when they had to hold out for hours…

"Hey," Nick said, sitting down next to her and chucking at her expression, "at least you've got a machete. I have to make do with a goddamn frying pan – bacon-grease residue and all."

He held it up, showing her. Rochelle giggled, punching him on the arm.

"You'll live. You once told me you killed one of the bastards with the letter opener from your apartment."

"Er yeah…" Nick replied awkwardly. "He was definitely a zombie."

Coach came into the mess, hands coated in engine grease and brandishing his pile in his arms. He had a similar look on his face to Rochelle.

"Have you seen this crap?" He exclaimed furiously, a spare magazine clattering to his feet. "I swear to God, they've gotta be hiding some shit from us. There was way more than that – "

Nick shook his head, chuckling.

"I was with Corporal Bennett and the others in my group when they shared it out," he replied. "That's literally all we've got. No spares, no extras, no nothing."

"Then why are you laughing?" Coach asked him, confusedly.

"'Cos if I didn't, guess I'd cry," Nick said, chuckling still. "I love how much God just loves to fuck us up the ass."

"Don't be blasphemous now, boy." Coach snapped, looking slightly irate at the comment. Nick couldn't understand for the life of him, through all Coach had seen and done, how he could believe in any sort of deity at all. He'd pretended to, for the sake of his third wife (of whom _he'd _actually been the one, for a change, to file for divorce from a few months ago) who had dragged him to St Catherine's Baptist every Sunday. He'd found it boring as hell (ha!) and actually started believing in it all less. He'd lost respect rapidly and started smoking in the back, whispering loud, inappropriate comments about any occasion they'd had fantastic sex to his wife, who pretended not to hear. He even went so far as to flick bits of paper at the pastor (torn from the copies of St James' Bible crammed into every orifice in the damned place) when he wasn't looking. The pastor been mighty pissed when he had turned round, though. Nick had caught him in the eye with 'Thou shalt not commit adultery", screwed into a ball – which had consequently caused his 'eternal' banning from the place and certain damnation. He was glad to be rid of the prejudiced fuckers and told Caroline (his wife at the time) just that, which had started the many hundreds of arguments leading up to when he called up his lawyer in Boston.

Quite suitably, his adultery had begun before than, on a holiday to Vegas with Slim (his best friend and the reason for any sort of dodgy money he'd ever gotten his hands on) when he'd managed to get off with at least half of the waitresses in Maxx, their preferred strip joint. It had been incredible. He'd been very tempted not to leave after that night and just live out there, boozing it up and catching as many STD's as humanly possible; but Slim had told him about the joys of Savannah; so he had gone there instead, looking for prey.

He supposed Caroline had gotten the last laugh, really. She'd always hated Slim, irony of ironies, as Slim had been the one to introduce them both. He'd picked her up in a bar in Boston and decided she was just great for Nick, persuading him in a way that was uncouth, involving graphic explanations about her skills in giving head. Slim had died with that very expression on his face, a defensive, fearful look as Nick yelled at him (obviously not being serious, but wanting to see whether Slim understood that as a joke) about being crude about women. They had laughed then when the joke came out, clinking their beers together as Caroline walked in, pretty as a picture in a red cocktail dress. Nick remembered wondering to himself smugly if Slim was right.

He really, really was.

There were no jokes that came out when Slim died, though. Only his throat, from his chin to his shoulder, when Nick stabbed him with that letter opener. He had been bitten, coming to Nick to ask for help. Having to kill to live before, this occasion, (as painful as it was to think it) being no different – Nick had not risked it. It had wrecked him to, but he had killed Slim, crying out how sorry he was as he went for him, stabbing into the flesh of his gullet blindly, panicked. He didn't put up a fight and immediately went limp in his arms. He died with his eyes locked with Nick's, yellow and begging – making Nick feel, in that instant, despite every crime or person he had hurt, more of a monster than what Slim was becoming.

Of course, Nick did not tell Coach any of this at all.

"Meant no disrespect, brother," he replied, picking up the magazine Coach had dropped and putting it back into the stack. "Just hard to have any faith these days."

Coach put his stuff down and leant against the wall. He heard the other soldiers muttering to themselves from the other side of the room, glancing over to the three of them or staring helplessly at their pathetic means of defence. He knew it was maybe hard for him to think so, but he was sick of it. Mood bred behaviour and Coach was tired of the constant doubt.

"I have to Nick," he replied, breaking out into a smile. "Keeps me going, see. Man gotta have a purpose, else he'll crumble into dust. Grandmama always told me to keep on bein' a prayin' man."

Nick spied the greasy fingerprints on one of Coach's Molotovs.

"Where've you been, anyway? Took you an awful long time to clear your head."

"Applegate's mainly fixed the radio," Coach replied, "Been helpin' him out – I ain't such a bad guy to have around when it's do or DIY. Found a broken radio in the back of one of the jeeps and merged the parts. Reason I didn't announce it was because he's not got a link with Papa Gator yet, as the frequency dial's still a bit screwy. He's gonna come in and tell everyone when the job's done."

"Finally," said Rochelle with a satisfied sigh. "Good news for a change."

"Yeah, sure as hell hope so."

They both glared at Nick, who held up his hands in defence.

"Look, I just tell it how it is," he said sheepishly. "I'm not one for mincing words."

"You got that goddamned right," Ro and Coach said together, as one of the soldiers approached them. His shoulder was bleeding with what looked like a bullet wound. He had cupped his free hand across it and was nursing it. He stumbled over, Rochelle catching him with a grunt. Despite the lack of food over the past few weeks, he was heavy. She struggled to help set him down.

"Thanks, lady." He said, giving her a weak thumbs up. She smiled back at him.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

"Captain Jennings shot me," he replied, a slight quiver of anger in his tone, "as punishment for letting Tango Mike Bravo escape the vicinity."

Rochelle and Nick exchanged glances worriedly, deciding to get off the topic of Ellis before the atmosphere in the room got any worse. She looked over at the other soldiers, worried they'd heard, but none of them looked up. They were all staring at the floor as they spoke to one another, or leaning against something jauntily; former cockiness dissipated. In a time where combat was about to come crashing down upon all of them like a junkyard downpour, now was not the time.

"Jesus," she said, aghast, turning back to him. "How the hell did you make it?"

"Hiding in a corner and pretending to be dead," he said solemnly. "Listen to any of the stories the others have to tell and its roundabout the same for them, too. Sad day when bravery isn't enough to save you, anymore."

Neither Coach or Rochelle knew how to respond to that, so Nick stepped in, trying to be helpful in a 'man on man' basis, as Coach was simply standing there, looking uncomfortable.

"All _we've_ done is run," Nick said, trying to cheer him up a little. "You got shot, pal. No shame in running when there's no chance you can fight and make it out."

"Yeah," he said bitterly, "guess there isn't."

All Nick could do is look back at him as he got up, limping back to his friends. He felt the soldier had come over to ask him something, but had felt intimidated by them. Nick felt irritated by that.

_We saved their asses_, Nick thought to himself, _so what's the beef?_

"Poor kid," Coach muttered. "Can't be easy, when rescuing people's your job, only to need to be rescued."

Nick immediately felt stupid.

_That's the problem, _he realised, looking over at the small group over in the corner in all of their apprehension and fear. _They're meant to be protecting us, when we don't need them. We're three normal people who made it by themselves – and they don't like it_. _It's the main reason they don't want to be around us_.

He knew that was vain, however – as well as somewhat unfair. Those miniguns had to be handled by somebody – and two of the men had stepped forward, the eldest at forty eight, Sergeant Morton (the gruff voiced man) and the most injured next to Applegate, Private Samberg – to do the job. They had done it to serve – knowing that when they ran out, they were as good as dead.

It seemed incredible to him.

_(They must survive at all costs they must survive they hold the cure) _

The doctor's words. He had tended to the wounded in the mess, scurrying out to get pills or gauze. The mess had been chosen as their place of refuge; having an emergency exit ladder which led to the roof and only slits for windows. From the roof, there was a fifteen foot drop into long grass – short enough to fall in an emergency – and a manageable distance to the chopper pad. The mess also had two sets of doors, excluding the opening on the rooftop – a double door at the front, both made of steel and a door that led to the storage cellar below. Barricades were plentiful, with benches and other equipment being abundant, which they could do in a hurry if they were driven back. The survivors and the rest of the soldiers who had not been designated places to be had been assigned to fight it on the mess roof when the action got heavy and, when out of ammo or other weapons, to drop into the mess and head for the cellar to hide until they could escape. The doctor had been given weapons, but he was to stay downstairs until absolutely necessary, repairing wounds if needed. The three of them grimly hoped to themselves that they wouldn't need his help.

Out of all the places to hold out in the camp, it was by far the best. Despite the worries involving ammo, the three of them felt more confident about making it then they ever would have done even half a day ago. The only problem was the jeep garage; being on the other side of the camp, but, if they reserved their bile jars and kept their numbers big enough, they could just about make it.

Applegate burst through the doors then, looking half hysterical but grinning somehow in spite of his face. He looked so different to the distraught kid he had before – the freckles on his nose even looking brighter. Rochelle noticed and remarked mentally how much he looked like her _favourite_ ex, who she'd met and dated at college.

"I _got _him!" Applegate exclaimed, pointing at Nick who gave him a cold look in reply, "Come on up. He wants to speak to the three of you – confirm the Tango Mikes are still okay. Bennett's talking with him and trying to negotiate transport."

There was a brief cheer from the back just as the doctor pushed past Applegate who hissed in pain, looking indignant and carrying gauze amongst other things in his arms. He sat down with the group and started to re-bandage Cajun Jones's arm.

The three of them followed Applegate up to what was Jennings's office and personal quarters, where they could hear the squeals of the radio as Bennett fought to keep the signal going.

"Copy that Sir. Tango Mikes at the ready. Over."

Coach took the call.

"Here, Papa Gator. With me are Tango Mikes Charlie and Alfa. How can we help you? Over."

"Put them on," the radio voice fuzzed in reply. "Over."

"We're here." They both said simultaneously. "Over."

"Then that's all I need. Over."

The three of them stepped back, too bewildered to be insulted as Bennett took control of the mike.

"Where is Tango Mike Bravo? Over." Asked the voice, coldly. Rochelle swore she heard Bennett swallowing.

"He... went down in the onslaught." Bennett lied, "Over."

"Riiiight."

There was an uncomfortable pause before Papa Gator spoke again, his words cruel.

"You and the rest of the world want evac right now," he said sharply. "I can guarantee safe passage for the carriers, but it'll be around three hours before the copter arrives. The rest of you are going to have to be... resourceful, I'm afraid. Over."

"But that isn't –" Bennett began, horrified.

"Best I can offer. We'll be there in three hours. Over and out."

The voice died down to a thin crackling and Bennett slammed down the mike in fury. It rang out loudly in the silence; the mortification and guilt of the four carriers who stood there, Applegate being a newly found one of them, quite numbing to them all. He felt like he had undoubtedly betrayed his friend; something the other three could see in his eyes. They felt bad enough, but that somehow made it worse – as they now had strong evidence that if they'd not been around, nobody would have come, at all. The three of them thought of the bodies back in New Orleans and felt little better than the ones who had committed those murders.

"Jay –" he started, using Bennett's first name, but Bennett had sat down, clasping the back of his head with his hands.

"Nobody tell anyone," he muttered into his knees. "If they know, they'll break down."

The ongoing quiet was broken again and would never emerge itself again that night. This time by the waiting, undeniable inevitable.

"To the roof!" Screamed someone from the mess below. "For the love of God, they're coming! They're fucking _coming_!"


	12. Chapter 12

**I decided to do this bit in two chapters, as, to me, it makes the story flow a little better. I'm currently working on the next bit, which I'll upload early next week. Thank you to those few lovely people who've reviewed so far - I appreciate it loads :)**

* * *

><p>Dawn came and went quickly as Ellis set to work fixing up the house; triple-locking and barricading the front and back doors as soon as he set Zoey down. There had been no sign of his mother anywhere. He had expected that, but the fact that there were no clues as to where she went whatsoever served as a source of worry that crippled him. He felt he would rather know than wait forever on the news – for instance, the fact that he knew his father was dead served his peace of mind much better, awful as that was. Ellis and his mother had gotten the call around three weeks ago; that he had just suddenly dropped dead in hospital, though Ellis was sure there was a cover up. They'd had no time for any legal battles however to look into it, because then everyone else started either dying in the streets or attacking each other. The only thing that stopped that thought from dominating his brain was the urgency of the situation at hand.<p>

Ellis and his mother had boarded the windows soon as they heard about the chaos. They had spent more time on the downstairs ones than upstairs, as was made obvious by one of the panes upstairs; smashed to pieces by the infected, who then drove them out. His mother had gone to her car, shaking her head when Ellis screamed at her to come with him, perhaps thinking two modes of transport were better than one. Ellis had, after much pleading, gone to his pickup, armoured on all sides to the teeth (if it had any) – and they vowed to meet each other at the rendezvous point, namely the Vannah Hotel. Ellis had made it, first picking up Keith a few blocks away – who had gotten out in the first chopper. His mother hadn't – so Ellis had gone back to look for her and, as he did, his pickup got torn to pieces by the horde. He must have lain unconscious for a good six hours before he met with the others who had missed the same evac chopper – leaving time something from then on in, to always be desired.

He had lain Zoey down on the sofa; covering her with a blanket. She would be safe there as he checked and fixed everything upstairs. There were still leftover planks from where he and his mother had taken apart the barn for wood, so Ellis, toolkit from his room in hand, reinforced the windows best he could, working quickly. He hit his thumb by accident with the hammer and cussed furiously. He hoped he wasn't being too loud and paused for a second, keeping an ear open, but heard nothing. Ellis noted dimly that the silence meant that the chickens must have died; long since starved when he and his mother parted ways. It all added to how the house was now empty and unreal – which made him feel a horrible, dull ache of sadness.

But, then there was Zoey. His window to the door that had closed, long behind him that would never again open.

She was here with him – and she was alive.

After he had finished upstairs and was certain that everything was secure, he carried her up and lay her down in the guest room. He hadn't the heart, even though it was largest and had an adjacent bathroom that saved him from constantly wandering down the hall, to put her in his mother's room. He had passed it on the way to the guest room, the shadows groping the walls and knew how she would never be there again, reading her historical romances in bed. It would drive him insane if he were to go in there now and see Zoey there where his mother should have been, in how much pain she was. Ellis closed the door to block out the view, locking it from the outside with the burnished brass key hanging next to it, praying it would hold. He told himself that when he could, if he needed to, he would fix it up later. It would be easier when he could talk to someone else while he did it to take his mind off of things.

He had never gotten the opportunity, always running and pulling weight since he found her in Rayford, to really, truly look down at her. As he did, he didn't know what to feel. There was so much ambivalence in his mind, perplexing and overwhelming him. Intense happiness in his hopeless selfishness, that she was here with him. Horror, at the state she was in and how he could maybe have prevented it, if he had run away sooner than he did. And all the while, the protective urge had driven him, harder than any strange drug that Keith had made him try on any rare occasion on nights out in Atlanta, to keep going for her. It drove him as he washed her wounds, looking at her smooth nakedness but feeling no sexual urges from it, knowing they were not yet to visit him. It drove him as he gained the courage to enter his mother's closet next to her room and pull out her robe – initials P.M. (Phyllis McKinney, or Pippa to her friends) embroidered on the lapel – without crying. It even drove him as he later scrubbed and scrubbed her clothes and his own with whatever washing soap he could get his hands on, trying and trying to get rid of the stains, but knowing they would never truly fade.

He was thankful for little right now, but as he peeled away the bandages from her pale flesh, deep red with coagulate, he noted with relief that she had done well in taking care of them. They were deep, but only one had opened recently. The others had healed well and had crisp scabs. He thought it was a miracle that she could have done it at all, in the condition she must have been in. It had not been the bleeding that had made her weak, or at least, not fully. He realised grimly, at her gently protruding pelvis and ribs, how starved she must have been – and then wondered what he could rustle up to make her, when she woke. There were sufficient supplies in the house, for at least the next couple of days and the petrol-run generator in the basement, mandatory for country houses like Ellis's, would mean that they'd have electricity as long as the gasoline supplies held out.

He had washed and re-bandaged her wounds using the first aid kit his mother kept in the kitchen. Keith had always fancied himself as a cook, so his mother had always had it around, just in case, knowing full well how accident prone he was. They had incredibly, until now, never needed to use it. Pink soap suds fell to the floor and burst with gentle crackles as he worked; the bedspread growing a deeper colour with all the blood she had spilled. He tried to be as careful as he could, working in slow circles with a clean sponge, but couldn't prevent her winces and murmurs. He swallowed as he tried not to think about them, knowing that she would benefit more from him doing this than if he were to simply leave her.

After he had finished, a chalk-line of red around her body against the peach coverlet his mother had chosen from Wal-Mart as a bargain, he lay down the sponge and doubed the cuts with cotton wool dipped in rubbing alcohol. Her winces got worse as he did so – and she let out a cry as he lifted her to bandage her stomach. It had been the closest he'd been to holding her ever since he'd known her and was messed up in the knowledge that this was how it had to happen, that it hadn't been somewhere else –

He wrapped her in his mother's robe; the pink lightening her white skin. He couldn't help thinking how lovely she looked in it – but still, how incredibly delicate. The funny thing was, that Ellis knew she wasn't. Thinking back about her, thoughts coming back about how she'd fired her guns and saved him from being constricted, ridden, punched – he could hardly believe it of her. She was a better shot than he was – and his Dad had taken him to a rifle range at three (one of Ellis's 'better' examples of his parenting). She had survived and kept a level head better than he ever could have done – knowing full well that he'd have died long ago without help, the way he was then – even, hell, bandaging _herself_ while she was bleeding half to death. He wondered if him helping her would make her as frustrated with herself as he thought it would.

He tucked her in under a fresh duvet, the other cover on the floor and sat next to her. Her lashes fluttered as he did so – and she smiled. He raised his hand to her cheek tentatively and dared touch it, unable to help himself.

"I never thought I'd find ya there, darlin'," he whispered to her, knowing it was true. The most he had hoped for was a breadcrumb, maybe to hint as to where she might've gone, like a recommended Key on the wall of any nearby holdouts where she and the other two with her back then might have stayed. Seeing her there had been something of a jolt to his system, which set him out of order and forced him to pull together the pieces far too quickly. He still felt he wasn't right in the head and it was all a dream.

There were so many things he wanted to ask her. He felt like he was back again that night with Polly, but only ten times worse. Ellis yearned to know everything, his business or not. He had to know what she'd gone through, as perhaps a means to understand her pain.

_Why weren't you on your boat with the others, little lady?_

_How did you get hurt, like you did?_

_How long were you there for? _

But most of all: _How'd you survive out there, by yourself without transport with all of those zombies around you?_

His curiosity had never been one of his better traits. It had led to a broken leg when he was nine, climbing over a wall with Keith to an apple orchard that spring; a hangover when he was eighteen when he'd mixed Comfort and treacle, an experience that had made him feel like death warmed up – all kinds. He would have to hold it back and let her tell him, if she would or could, slowly if they were going to make it out here until she was strong enough to be fully mobile. They would have to talk about a plan of action first, as a means of knowing what to make out of the time they now had together. He was all out of everything now in terms of ideas, brain still being in a different place as he picked up the duvet cover to take to the trash and her vest to wash. He wasn't sure why he was bothering with it; but since it was hers, he figured even if it was a mess, she might want it back.

He didn't want to leave her up there to do the things he had to do. He could have stayed there; just looking at her all day in a transfixed, dreamy state that he knew was weird but couldn't give a damn. She was even prettier than he remembered and he felt a sense of pride, that he knew, even if she might not think the same about him, that he'd at least helped her. He would keep on doing the same as long as she needed him, whatever it took.

_Because_, he thought to himself as he pulled himself away, wanting to turn around and kiss her brow; touching her face only a drop insufficient to quench his thirst, _that's what I'm meant to do_.

He left her, then. He spied the walkie-talkie on the kitchen table, where he'd put it earlier and felt his insides sinking a little. The prospect of talking to the others was too much for him to handle right now. They would have questions and he had things to do. He decided to procrastinate from doing it, telling himself firmly that as soon as Zoey was awake and better, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

_(I think we'd better break it off)_

He went to the pantry and scavenged tins of things, not really fully sure –

_(I've been seeing someone else it just happened I'm) _

– what he was going to make. He thought of stew, but wondered if it would be too rich for her on waking.

_(You never came to see me you were always busy I was lonely Ellis you left me first you left me)_

He finally settled on porridge; grasping the oats, sugar and condensed milk needed for it, pan already set to boil with water. His mother always used to make it in the mornings before work and it soothed him to no end and –

_(I don't want to be alone anymore please let me stay with you I'm sorry)_

– did him the world of good.

_(Ellis don't let go of me for the love of God PLEASE DON'T LET GO OF MY HAND)_

The ingredients clattered to the floor as Ellis grasped the sides of his head, fighting it and fighting it. It was rising up to get him as he knew it would. Seeing Zoey had done that and been the final notch, breaking the dam and letting the filthy waters of memory flow into his mind.

_(THEY'RE BITING ME)_

He set about picking up the ingredients from the floor, but his hands weren't working, along with the rest of him.

_(OH IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE DON'T LET GO PLEASE)_

He heard her screams in his head. They were everywhere, in his ears, in his mind – in his soul. They tore at him as relentlessly as they were merciless; stabbing him again and again with their malice. He had seen Keith there, but it had not been him that day whom Ellis had picked up.

He had gone to find her. He had found her. She had come with him afterwards, to look for his mother in the midst of the hell.

And he had lost her to them, as they broke through with their many hands, pulling her and taking her away from him.

The pan filled with water on the stove was boiling over, but Ellis could do nothing to stop it. He could only weep, kitchen floor the pillow to cushion the broken, crude remnants of his once certain lucidity of everything. He wept so strongly that his muscles tensed like immovable wires, sobbing inhibited as puddles of everything vulnerable leaked from him; pooling generously on the cold linoleum. He allowed it to happen and let it come; in this place that was once his home. He let it baptise him, the vivid blackness inside him eventually falling away as he wept.

Droplets of boiling water spat upwards from the pot, pricking him on the cheek and bringing him back. Victory filled him; a sense of wellbeing coming forth that he had never before experienced in this month or more of misery. He felt stronger than he ever had after doing that – and he had faced it alone. If it was anything like the darkness Zoey had overcome, then he could at least start relating to her suffering.

As the porridge simmered away, its familiar, stereotypical country aroma rising in its pleasantness around the house, Ellis scrubbed.

_One day, _he hoped silently, _the blood will disappear forever_.


	13. Chapter 13

The first images in Zoey's mind, as her brain did the inexplicable (but yet impossible to experience in memory), were of her; as her unconsciousness transited from grey to colour. She watched herself; as if she were a ghost looking down on the world. She was five – and she was running. She was not running _from_ anything though, this time. There was no fear in that child's eyes, or doubt. The little girl that was her was running toward her mother, with outstretched arms. Her mother lifted her, laughing, holding her like a doll. She _became_ that little girl now, looking up at her mother – no longer seeing from the outside.

Her mother carried her into the kitchen and sat her down. Her father came in with a happy guffaw and kissed her on both cheeks, calling her all of those wonderful diminutives that adults save for their children, 'Zo-zo' and 'Babycakes' being her favourites. Her mother scolded him for overexciting her before eating, as she worked at something that smelled wonderful on the stove. It was a familiar aroma that she couldn't quite place; something which she had not eaten in a long time, giving it a nostalgic trigger. She smelled it and thought of the day-care she went to in the early mornings before her parents went to work.

_(It smells so real)_

_(Real?)_

Her slumber dissipated as the images faded; a sluggish feeling overcoming her. For a moment, she could recall nothing and didn't want to open her eyes; suddenly certain that she was back in that place, the place where she had spent two weeks rotting. She sniffed, expecting to smell the decay that had become so familiar to her, but instead smelt something else. A smell of cotton, lilacs and something cooking – warmth. She could not recall her dream, as most often cannot – but the feeling of nostalgia she had experienced in sleep came back to her as she recognised what it was.

_(Porridge?)_

Her eyes opened and relief overcame her, so much she almost cried. The ceiling that she was looking up at was not lined with pipes or grey tiles. It was a soft beige, with characteristic hairline cracks where the paint had split over time. The room was similar; gentle, but with a hint of agedness about it, like an old face. She looked around at the peaches and cream colour scheme, girlish but not overdone and wondered whose room it was.

_(Whose room _is_ it)_

She suddenly became very nervous, as she fought to reclaim her memories from the previous evening (or what she assumed was the previous evening), the task of ignoring the hunger that sapped her energy and concentration gruelling to accomplish. Her mind had almost given in then; shutting down due to a lengthy combination of fear, starvation and blood loss. It was not back yet, but she was feeling better than she had that night. She felt almost tempted to believe that the infected had never been and she had simply woken up at one of the houses of her distant relatives; the variety that her and her father cared little for but her mum sucked up to. The boarded-up windows however and the blood spots on the cream rug spoke of the presence of the looming dark.

She realised instantly with an uncomfortable feeling that it was _her_ blood and looked down underneath the duvet, expecting something of a massacre, but there were no bloodstains there. Just a pink robe, soft and fluffy, hugging her limbs in their vintage-glass fragility. It held her and she was grateful for it, if not suspicious.

_(Someone has cleaned me up)_

Zoey was aware that she ought to be grateful (a familiar figure of her rescuer was beginning to now form in her head through the mist) to whoever had washed her, but she still helplessly felt somewhat violated. She had always been a person who was extremely private and shy about sharing herself with anyone, even doctors, although she knew it was stupid. She could joke about it and always did, her sense of humour as boyish as any young man her age, but in truth never really made good on her jokes.

Blushing heavily at the idea, she sat up. The smell of porridge was still in the air, comely and a little cloying, but not in an unpleasant way. It beckoned her, like pheromonal perfume and she felt herself salivating helplessly, tasting it already. She got up, willing herself with the knowledge of the reward for doing so and planted her feet firmly on the carpet. The pile was an unfamiliar texture to her; being so used to the roughness of gravel or other road materials – something she had had to walk on when her sneakers had filled with blood from blisters. Her legs did not feel as if they were her own and for a few moments, she fought to regain her balance, like a baby giraffe. Two weeks of disuse had weakened her muscles and now she had nothing to hold on to. She stumbled forward loudly, amazed at the concept of falling and caught her shoulder on the doorknob. Pain exploded from her neck to the base of her arm as she pulled herself up, unwilling to ask for help. This struggle was something she had to cope with alone, for now.

She expected a voice to call up at the noise she knew she was making, but instead, she heard whistling and cutlery chiming and thunking gently as it was placed on the table by someone who was slightly heavy-handed and clumsy, but well-meaning. The sounds were friendly, but instead of her nervousness falling away, it grew. Her memories were completing themselves; an image becoming more and more vivid in her head. Their accent was southern and their eyes were blue, like her father's. He had held her up and carried her –

_It can't be who I think it might be_. Zoey thought, trying to relax. _It wouldn't make any sense_.

After the trek down the hall amidst a fight with her scepticism, she stopped part-way down the stairs; her eyes tracing the busy wall of photos. They were in age order; a portrait of someone who had saved her life, but yet she knew so appallingly little about. They spoke volumes to her; more than he probably ever could if he was to recite his own life to her and, as she read the story, she learned about him.

There was a boy in every photo, with a man and a woman who made his face. He had his mother's eyes (the ones so like her father's) and nose; but his father's mouth and hair. This boy was a naughty boy, she gathered, or one that liked exploring a little too much; with many of the pictures showing him with bruises on his knees or face, with additional dirt on his clothes telling a story of how he got them. Some of the pictures showed him with another boy, with darker hair, making a face next to him. On those ones, his face was pulled, as if he were trying not to laugh and she giggled at his expression.

Two steps later and the little boy had gone; a young man starting to form in his place. Her eyes traced them, unable to stop as she grasped the beechwood banister tightly. He was standing there in them all, grinning; even in one where he was missing a tooth, holding up a rock with a thumbs up. She burst out laughing as she saw the one next to it; a picture of the dark-haired boy, present in the earlier photographs, looking guilty even through his light beard (same location of the Grand Canyon looming in the background) and covered her mouth. She passed the picture of him at Prom; looking somewhat gormless in a white, Johnny Cash-style suit, being held up by a worried-looking girl with mousy hair. Then, a picture of him and his band playing followed – a poorly-painted banner in the background sporting their name, too smeary to make out clearly.

She was coming to the end now and she was shaking, not wanting to stop looking. She drank in the last few; sweat accumulating on her hands and feet. Another of him drinking his first beer with his father (Budweiser in a 'cheers' position); another of him looking hugely happy, head and shoulders popping out of the sunroof of perhaps the most beaten-up pickup she'd ever seen; another of him standing outside a garage, _two_ thumbs-up this time with a wrench in his front pocket –

His arm around a pretty girl with curly auburn hair.

Zoey heard footsteps coming as her grasp betrayed her. Crying out, she slipped again, legs buckling as she began to fall, but arms reached out and caught her. The footsteps had gone away and instead she was being held again; looking up into the face that had been in all of those pictures.

"Better watch your step there, darlin'," Ellis said to her, smiling.

* * *

><p>They ate their porridge in silence. Not because they had nothing to say; more because they had far too much and didn't know where to start – although Zoey was swallowing mouthful after mouthful so fast and so desperately that she couldn't have said anything anyway. Ellis watched her in terrible pity as she gasped; gagging several times but not stopping until she had finished her third bowlful. She lay back after she'd finished; her hunger gone but her stomach now cramping. She knew she'd have indigestion later on, but for the moment, didn't care.<p>

"Thank you," she panted at last, head lulled a little to the side – the first words she had spoken to him since over a fortnight ago. Ellis got up to pick up her bowl; stopping to rub her back, to which she nodded in appreciation.

"Ain't nothin'," he replied, rough mechanic's hands kneading her muscles. She nearly groaned. "Looked like you needed it. There's more in the pot if you want another helpin', or I can make you somethin' else."

Zoey shook her head; his touch melting away the soreness and she burped gently. She reddened a little, but he didn't seem to mind. Not that she thought that he would have done, through everything. He, however, did take it as a cue to stop and he sat down on the chair beside her. He was looking into her eyes, but all she seemed to be able to do right now was stare at her knees. She didn't know what to think – what to do, or how to act.

So she started talking instead.

"What were you –"

"– doin' out there?" Ellis finished for her.

"Yeah. How did you find me?"

Ellis knew it'd be the first thing she'd ask, but it was also the one thing he hadn't wanted to answer. The truth might scare her – that he'd actually gone out looking for her. He was afraid of that, as he looked up into her emerald eyes, focussed on something inanimate to get away from his own. She did not trust him – that, he was sure – but did not take it personally, even though a bubble of hurt broke within him. The fact that he found her alone insinuated that she would likely find it difficult to trust _anybody_ from now on. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake when he spoke, by starting to earn her trust with a lie. A white lie, but a lie nonetheless.

He could not tell her why he was there and he would not.

Not yet.

"I ran away from a military encampment," he said, trying to retain eye contact. "I was headin' back to Savannah and passed through here. I heard screamin' and..."

He trailed off, guiltily. Zoey touched his wrist, making him jump a little. Her hand was small and soft, like a gardenia petal.

"I'm glad you did," she said, smiling a little more now. "If you hadn't, I'd probably have died out there. But you're a moron for trying – you could have killed yourself."

Ellis raised his eyebrows at her, in good humour.

"Don't think I can handle myself out there, little lady?" He asked her, coyly. "Learned how to shoot a gun when I was a grasshopper. Cans ain't got nothing on me."

"Never heard a straight man say that before."

He chuckled and Zoey felt herself relaxing a little as she looked up into his eyes, thinking of cornflowers as she did. She relaxed, in spite of the knowledge in the back of her mind of the looming danger ahead of her. She was getting serious Spiderman syndrome and, beyond her control or liking of the situation, she felt herself drawn towards him; like a giddy schoolgirl. She had found Ellis attractive when she first met him and had wondered often, during those many lonely hours holed up in that room alone, what she would feel like if she saw him again. Now she was getting more of that feeling and she wasn't sure she was ready for it, or what she had expected.

She changed the subject.

"So is this your house?" She asked, looking at the row of china plates above the door. "It's lovely."

Ellis's mouth curved sadly.

"It was, yeah," he replied, fiddling around with one of the porridge spoons. "Ain't got the character it used've, though. Can't see the woods proper from the planks boardin' up the damn windows. Pretty as hell this time of year, as the leaves are fallin'."

She looked at the hurt in his face and knew how much it had been for him to take her here. The emotional risks he had taken as well as the physical ones. She missed her home, too – she supposed they all did – but she would never go back to hers. It was lost forever to her; like a missing page. It had nothing to offer her anymore – no parents, no love. She imagined what it must have been like for him to have come here, seeing it empty and a bleak image of her own home in the same way flashed before her eyes, making her blood chill.

He saw the way that she was looking at him and smiled at her, reassuringly, but she could still see the sadness in his eyes.

"It ain't so bad. Wish I could've taken you somewhere safer, with more people. This was this only place I could think to go – what with the hospitals filled with you-know-what's 'n all."

Zoey let out a bitter laugh.

"Tell me about it. Last hospital I went to, before all of this crap, I came out in worse of a shape than when I went in."

Ellis looked at her sympathetically and ran a hand through his toffee-coloured hair where it had fallen into his eyes. Zoey didn't think she'd ever see him without his cap. It was like he was missing something vital from his head; like an ear.

"Where's your hat?" She asked, looking around. Ellis shook his head, grinning.

"Funny, really. Never wear it in the house. Mama was big on that rule and clipped me abou' the head if I so much as put it on right before I was gonna leave. This one time, my buddy Keith came in wearin' his hat – he forgot the rule see, as we was workin' in a garage at the time and he was tired that day from his boss yellin' at him abou' a shitty job he did on his wife's car–"

"– Let me guess," Zoey interrupted with mock sarcasm, "he got hurt, right?"

He blinked, amazed.

"Yeah, actually. Mama crowned him with her cake tin. How'd you guess?"

Zoey shrugged.

"I'm magic like that."

"Yeah..." Ellis started, hesitating a little from shyness.

"What?"

"That's somethin' of a word I'd use."

Zoey snorted, poor self-confidence kicking in along with nervous tendencies of her own, something, for once, Ellis had been right about.

"All the games I played before this helped my trigger-happy tendencies. It's a pretty bad reason to be such a good shot – only thing I've ever been truly magic at."

Ellis didn't know what else to do but smile at that. It hadn't been the response he'd hoped for, but it had been one he'd expected – so decided to back away, just a little, for now.

Although looking at her now, more beautiful to him than ever, he knew it was going to be hard.

"That ain't true now, is it Zoey?" He replied, teasingly. "You're almost as funny as a guy – and that's pretty damned magic."

She rolled her eyes.

"How ironic. You almost look like one."

She was making it tougher for him. He loved how fast she had been, with her characteristic sharp-tongued wit. It had been one of his favourite traits in Keith.

"Girl, you know how to sock it to 'em."

She giggled.

"The Zo-Meister don't fuck around, pretty boy," she replied, her accent poorly-mimicked Afro-Brooklyn. "She get the job done and she get it done fast."

Ellis bit his lip, smirking as he shook his head.

"You're somethin' else, doll."

They were quiet for a little bit after that, as the seriousness slunk back in, like a cruel entity. They were small-talking. They both knew that and had to get down to the real business at hand. It had surprised them both, however, how good it had felt.

"So," Zoey started, looking around again. "What now? We gonna stay holed up in here for the whole winter, or are we gonna go out into the wild and play with all the other animals?"

Ellis looked horrified at that and opened his mouth. Zoey immediately shook her hands sporadically, panicked at the accidental offense.

"No no, I'm kidding!" She exclaimed, worriedly. "I was just... wondering if you had a plan, or something."

Ellis flushed a little, feeling embarrassed.

"Depends how you're feelin', really," he replied softly. "You were in pretty bad shape when I found you. How'd ya get –"

"Hunter," interrupted Zoey, resentfully. "It pounced me. Thanks for cleaning me up, by the way."

His colour deepened and he got up. Zoey was worried she'd offended him somehow again, when he handed her a wet, stained fabric, which she unfurled and realised was her vest. Her dressing gown had loosened a little, revealing a suggestion of pale pink lace. Ellis thought to tell her, trying not to stare and failing miserably. It would be better for him not to.

That, and the view was mighty nice. After all, something Ellis could not help was being male.

"I... uh..." he said, closing his eyes in an attempt to focus, "Was bettin' on goin' back to the others. Left 'em back at the encampment when I went – guess I was plannin' on lookin' for mama, but I ain't found her yet. Wanna persuade 'em to get out of there – place ain't nothin' but a dead zone. They'll get s'more hope in 'em once they realize that even a dumbass like me can make it out here by himself."

Zoey burst out laughing, hating the sound of it. It was ugly, bitter laughter again, even worse than before. She heard the noises but couldn't believe it was her who made them.

"Funny, really," She gritted, placing perhaps harsh but understandable blame, "that you ought to say that. My group went and left me in the middle of the sea. It was the other way round."

She said it so bluntly that Ellis barely stopped himself from flinching. Her words had silenced him – and she knew they had done. Had it been him saying it, she'd have felt the same.

"I'm so sorry."

It was all he could say and he was back now; feeling almost as helpless as when he found her. He thought about reaching out to take her hand again, but she stood up. She was squeezing her top so hard that the fluid was oozing from it; cloudy droplets pattering onto the floor. He felt the intertwining connection that had been between them receding and willed for it to return.

"It doesn't matter," she said at last. "It was nobody's fault, really. Just an accident, that's all."

"Hell of an accident," Ellis managed, a twinge of anger in his voice, but Zoey waved it off. There was a awkward pause before she twined a strand of her hair between her fingers, pulling a face.

"Mind if I use your shower? I'm a bit of a mess, to say the least."

Ellis nodded, though reluctant. He feared he wouldn't be able to get as far in talking to her again, but had little choice. He helped her to the downstairs bathroom; almost drenching himself to the bone as he showed her how the shower worked.

"Yeah," he said sheepishly, shaking water droplets out of his hair, "don't get in when you twist it. It'll go cold, burnin' hot and then normal. Dunno how much hot water's left, but I'll stick the water heater on for a bit."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Ellis nodded, going for the door.

"Call me if you need me –"

"– Ellis?"

He turned around and, as he did, she kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you." She murmured, smiling. "I mean that."

He didn't look at her – as he was afraid that if he did, he'd say something stupid that he'd regret later.

_(I will never wash this cheek again)_

"No problem," he said in reply. "It really ain't."

With that, he left her alone. In his mind, however, she came with him and stayed there; a lingering presence of butterflies floating in the depths of his consciousness. He never wanted to stop feeling as he did; the happiness a new kind that was wonderful.

Five minutes later, south on an island in the Keys, there was a crackle of static.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Sorry this isn't an Ellis/Zoey chapter. Next one will be - but I have to deal with what happens to these guys, as its an integral part of the story. This'll be the last chapter actually _set_ in the encampment - as it's been hella hard to write this bit and also probably the most tedious part of the story. Got plenty more coming up, so I hope this bit's not too boring for you all. **

**On a lighter note - finally got 'Still Something to Prove' :') I'm so 'cool'...**

* * *

><p>An explosion shook the grounds of the encampment as the trio of survivors, accompanied by the soldiers, clambered onto the roof.<p>

Not an explosion of fire, or gas. It was of a different kind. This one came as an explosion of brick. One came in a huge sound, followed by another. The miniguns were working furiously, focussing all of their fire on the thing causing the incessant, damaging pounding. Roars ripped through the air; infected clambering over the gas truck like spiders and breaking into lumbering, pathetic runs when they dropped down, legs torn partially to pieces by the sharp wire curling its way around the wall, like a bramble snake. The hole it had made gaped open, like an unblinking eye. It was punching at it and widening it. They could see its fists reaching through, like a prisoner desperate for water.

However, it was not after water and never would be. Instead, it would make do with their blood and would never stop until it got what it wanted or fell to the lead rainfall. Shouts and cries ripped through the air as the soldiers fired at the thing and the others, surrounding the three carriers on the roof with a barrier of green.

The miniguns, though, did their job, because it did eventually fall down. Only, however, after the hole was around a metre and a half across. They were now clambering through it; squeezing and pushing as they squabbled to get through, frantic to tear whatever was still human apart.

Rochelle didn't know she had done it, but she had gripped Nick's hand, so tightly that her knuckles had actually gone pale. They had come sooner than they thought, so much so. They thought they'd have at least a couple hours more of quiet; with no need to really begin fighting until the last run. But their choices were now reduced to just two, as they always had been before they had gotten to Cliff's Edge.

Kill, or be killed.

"We can do this," Nick whispered harshly to her, though his voice was audibly shaky. "We have a plan. If we just stick with it, we can get through this, as we've done with worse."

Rochelle nodded to please him, though unconvinced and turned to Coach. His eyes were closed and he was mouthing a prayer. From her reporting, she had learned a few things about lip-reading and was able to make a little of it out.

_Lord, deliver us from this place, _

_Save us with your mighty hand. _

_Keep us in your Kingdom with your might and mercy..._

_(Save us) _

"Forty-eight hours my ass, Nick," she breathed, unable to stop herself. She felt guilty when he looked hurt, so squeezed his hand a little. His palms were smoother than she'd thought they would be, considering his previous business.

"I can't count the infected beyond the wall, honey." He replied, his tone slightly irate. "Situation must've been even shittier than we previously expected."

Rochelle nodded, as two of the soldiers threw a bile jar and a Molotov consecutively; on the survivors' advice. They struck the entrance of the hole; after which their surroundings became thick with screaming. They were drawn to it, like moths to a lamp and they went up in smoke the same way. Coach always thought of hell when he saw them as they ran, burning – and it never failed to freeze every drop of blood in his body. Aside from the moon and their torches, the fire caused by the Molotov was the only light; burning furiously in their vision when they were so used to the dark. They had to squint to make out anything clearly.

There were eight on the roof, including the three of them – and even then, had there been a great enough number, they'd have been cautioned from going up there. The others were either sniping, or in the guard towers, but the trio knew uncomfortably that they wouldn't last much longer. The Smokers would come soon, in the menagerie and they would be one of their worst problems.

"We can do this, men." Bennett said, his voice strong despite the hopelessness. "The future of this country may depend on how we fight here today."

He saluted them and they saluted him.

"Y'aught t've bin'a Major, ya dumb asshole," said Jones, making them all laugh.

"Not me," he responded. "I like drink, rebellion and women far too fuckin' much."

The bile wore away quickly. When it did, the scene below became truly terrifying, in a transition that was almost instant.

The dim had become bright; the darkness changing. The twilight was now filled with eyes. Eyes staring at them; unceasing in their yellow leering.

Dozens upon dozens of them – completely still, heavy breathing rampant in the air.

Coach finished his prayer and cocked his gun.

"Aim for the head."

He shot the first bullet of the night into the forehead of the closest; an overweight man in a TGI Friday's uniform. It echoed around them; a proverbial pin that had dropped.

Then, in a torrent of furious, ugly sounds; they charged.

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't want to speak to you."<em>

_Francis rolled his eyes. _

"_You're going to have to eventually, Louis."_

_The young, IT consultant had aged dramatically in the past few weeks. His brow had crinkled and there were lines around his mouth. His injuries were still bad; one leg still barely hanging in there. Most days he'd swum in the sea, just to get away from speaking to Francis and to help clean the wounds on his damaged leg. He was not in the mood today, so he had lain on the beach, as far away as he could from Francis, who, after nearly a week of silence, had still not gotten the hint. _

_When he realised Francis wasn't going away this time, Louis gave in and glared over at him furiously. _

"_We could have gone back for her, Francis," he muttered angrily. "It wasn't too late."_

_Francis didn't say anything for a minute, his head bowed. Louis shuffled on his side, away from him; not wanting to look at him. This week had been one of the darkest of their lives. Two deaths had brought them to this paradise; free of the infected, or military. It made them both feel dirty thinking about it like that. Louis would far rather be back on the mainland; Zoey and Bill still alive and with them rather than the two of them being out here, alone. _

"_I wanted to, Louis." He finally said, his voice shaking a little, but Louis was still stubbornly facing away from him. A palm leaf fell, crackling and brown, a few feet away. Its sections stretched toward Francis, like a many fingered hand. He looked at it and thought of Zoey's fingers, reaching through the waves as they claimed her, swallowing her into the blackness. It had haunted their dreams and everything around them seemed to be her, calling out to them and begging for help. _

"_But we couldn't go back," he continued, his tone becoming more indignant, "because if we'd gone back..."_

"_We'd have drowned too," Louis spat. "I get that. I still say it'd been worth it. She'd have risked it, had it been one of us."_

_Francis knew he wasn't looking, but pointed anyway, yelling now._

"_Look at the boat, Louis!"_

_Louis didn't need to, because he knew exactly what he would see. Half of the deck was gone; destroyed by the attacking Tank and the storm. Many of the supplies had become bloated with water; rendering them useless. The majority of the journey to the island had been spent with buckets, hurling water off the side in an attempt to keep the innards dry. They had made it, but only barely; the engine instantly dying as soon as they reached land. Louis had spent the remainder of his time, when he wasn't swimming or sleeping, trying to fix the engine; but the spark plug had frazzled. It was an easily fixable problem ashore, but getting to the mainland now, with no working boat, was virtually impossible._

_They were stuck on this island and they could do nothing about it._

_Louis heard footsteps behind him; trudges in the sand and knew Francis had finally left him; in favour of another of his long walks. He had been taking them more and more lately, trying to find wood or other supplies. They had made a bonfire to signal any air transport and to keep them warm; the nights becoming fairly cold even in Florida due to the approaching winter, but it needed fuelling. Wood supplies around them were getting low, so it had been up to Francis to acquire the majority of the wood; Louis unable to walk very far._

_As the sun moved across the sky in a fiery arc; Louis wondered dimly if Francis was coming back. Although he was angry with the man still; a part of him really needed him. If he lost his company in the place, with nobody at all for the rest of his life in all of this impossibility, he seriously didn't know what to think. This walk was the longest walk that Louis could remember; even topping the one when they first got here. It was hours before he returned and the sun was setting on the horizon; the shadows long and invasive across the white sand of the beach._

"_Took you long –"_

_Francis's face cut his sentence short. He looked like he had run half of the way; deep scratches on his arms from gorse bushes that were clustered about in the small jungle in the centre of the island. Louis had never before seen a man look how Francis did then, no matter how bad things had gotten and it frightened him. He looked like a ghost – his deep tan now fully pale, a nasty greyish-white colour of old oatmeal. _

"_I need to take you somewhere in the morning and show you something," Francis muttered, half to Louis and half to his shoes. _

"_Dude what happened out there? Are you –"_

"_You need to see it to believe it."_

* * *

><p>"Get down!"<p>

They were everywhere; climbing up onto the roof – surrounding them. The mines had exploded long ago, leaving small craters in the ground; gore scattered generously around them. However, they could not see this in the dim; or through the thickness of the horde that had filled the encampment. The survivors had been reduced to using only their melée weapons; having only a clip left each in their M16s. They would save them until they well and truly had no other choice.

Rochelle eyed the walkie-talkie on Coach's belt and wondered if Ellis could hear any of this. Unbelievably, she found herself, rather than worrying about her own death, which looked pretty imminent at the moment, if the kid was still going. One of the snipers tried to jump down from where they were to get over to the roof of the mess; but something jumped on their head, dragging them off, screaming. None of them saw this, too busy edging their way toward the entry to the mess whilst attempting to stay together, but they all heard the scream and Rochelle shivered terribly.

"Is this how you imagined it?"

Rochelle turned around to look at Nick, looking surprisingly powerful despite his use of a frying pan as a weapon. He beat them back viciously with it, swinging it with all of the skill that Rochelle's grandmamma had used on her cheating ex-husband. She giggled shrilly.

"Not really," she admitted, "but then again, I didn't really think I'd be alive when the world went to shit, either."

"You and me both, doll."

Beating back the horde as they moved, they clambered back into the mess. As she climbed, Rochelle saw the elder of the two men handling the miniguns constricted, a long purple tongue grasping and pulling him like a string on a tent. She tried to call out, but was shoved down into the hole as one of the soldiers bolted shut the small trapdoor leading to the roof. Nausea overtook her as she stumbled backward into the wall; sinking down with her head in her lap.

The doors to the room had been barricaded; but they could see eyes from the outside peering in through the glass as the doors shook; their fists pounding and pounding in order to break them down. They would get through – and soon.

They always did.

"Get a compress!"

Coach turned around and saw the doctor, red-faced and standing over Applegate, whose body was shaking.

He was having a seizure.

"Oh, God –"

Coach ran for the sink; taking off his polo shirt and soaking it in water. Sodden shirt in hand, he rushed back, Nick and Rochelle looking on with worried eyes as Bennett fought over the radio with Papa Gator, using several angry sentences filled with expletives. There was brief purr of interference before the reply came; barely audible over Bennett's panicked breaths.

"Roger that, Corporal. Chopper is on its way and will get there when it gets there. I suggest you and the remainder of your group attempt to plan an escape route for when it arrives. Over and out."

The doctor applied the compress to his head and looked up at the rest of them; mask covering his pursed lips.

"We can't wait around on them. If we don't get him out of here soon, he's going to die. He's haemorrhaging into his brain – meaning next time he goes into shock, it could be it for him."

The young man was now limp; shallow breaths heaving his chest in and out forcefully.

"What d'ya suggest?" Asked Cajun Jones, voice heavy. "He be mon ami, monsieur. I'll risk what needs be for 'im."

"We need to get out of here," the doctor replied sharply. "We need to get out of here and get to the jeeps. There's a hospital a few miles north of here, that we could get supplies from. If we can charge through –"

"There's too many of them now," Nick shot back at him, his tone desperate. "We'll never make it –and if we do, there's still a goddamn gas truck to contend with up against the gates –"

"Unless they have bait."

They turned around to face the soldier with the shoulder wound. His mask had splintered; the visor cracked open to reveal a pair of soulful brown eyes. Despite it however, he was standing tall; an air of decision surrounding him. Nick looked at him and felt how he'd felt towards the actions of the brave soldiers in the guard towers; one of whom, beyond anyone's knowledge aside from Rochelle, was already likely dead.

"How much bile have we got left?"

"Two jars," replied the doctor bitterly, holding them up. "That's all."

He put them on the table in front of them; the green fluid in them glinting in the light of their torches.

"Are the jeeps in working order, Lowry?"

"Two are," the soldier furthest away replied, "but the other's brakes are cut. I tried to fix them up, but the fluid needed for the hydraulics must've leaked out. There wasn't enough left in supply to replace it."

They could barely hear each other over the terrible noise from outside. It closed in like dense air inside a bubble; pounding at the walls. They felt as if they were in a funhouse, or trapped within something that seemed alive. Glass splintered as hands began to claw through the doorway, their hinges squealing loudly. They had piled as much furniture as humanly possible around it, but the doors wouldn't take much more. If another Tank came, they would be dead in seconds.

"We're going to have to move," Nick cut in. "If we run, we can make it before the bile wears off. It's the best chance we have. This room can't help us anymore. If we go down into that cellar, they'll just beat their way into there too."

Rochelle stepped forward; placing a supportive hand on his arm.

"He's right," she said. "I ran about half that distance alone, from the barracks to the power shed, during that first wave. With bile, we can make it."

Bennett whistled in awe, as Applegate pushed up with his hands, fighting to sit up. The doctor shushed him, gently easing his head back down. A side table overturned near the door; falling near them and breaking a leg. Rochelle helplessly imagined the constricted man, but forced her face to stay straight.

Jones stepped forward, urging away the doctor and picking up Applegate in a piggyback. His compress fell off, which Coach then proceeded to pick up and pull back over his head; the damp smell of stagnant water mixing unpleasantly with his sweat.

"Tis t'only way," he said, voice struggling under Applegate's weight affecting his arm. "I'll carry him ova' dere. Can't let dis'eyre boy die yet."

Bennett nodded, touching his shoulder.

"You're a good man, Jean," he said. "I could never be more proud to know anyone."

Jones just shrugged, hissing at the strain of doing so. Lowry went to approach him, but Jones shook his head.

"Dis be for moi, boy," he whispered. "You be needed elsewhere."

Bennett turned to the others, his fingers flexing and unflexing next to the two handguns at his sides. They were both Glocks and fully loaded. His assault rifle, however, was empty. He would not be able to take point for the others with the weapons he had, despite being in the best condition out of all of his fellow soldiers.

"Is anyone still alive out there?" He asked into his walkie-talkie.

Coach was ashamed that even he'd not expected a response. It took a few seconds, but words did crackle through; the creaking of the hinges almost fazing them out.

"Private Samberg here, sir – and only just," yelled the young man over the frequency.

Bennett let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank God for that. What's happening out there?"

"Luton is still going, but it's looking like he's not going to last – they're charging away from the gates towards the buildings and with nobody up there..."

He trailed off. Bennett gave him a minute before saying anything.

"He'll have to fight them off for now, if he can't get down. We're forming a plan to get us out of here. Are you able to walk?"

"I can walk," Samberg replied, "but only barely. My left ankle's broken."

Bennett swallowed.

_(Out of all of the injuries)_

"Good. Here are my orders. I want you to move the gas truck out of the way of the gates. After you do that; I want you to climb back up into the guard tower and electrify the fence. The battery won't last long, but it might just be able to buy us enough time for us all to push through. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'll help him," the Sergeant cut across. "With a broken ankle, he's going to need all the help he can get. I can run."

Rochelle wanted to step forward and say something. They were risking their lives and she felt badly that needed to just _do_ something. She looked at them all and thought of how unfair she had been to them; thinking of them as cowards. If _she_ had seen so many at once, having only fought from a distance before, when one bite could kill...

The way this facility had been run had been a dispute of differences between the carriers and the authorities. Rochelle – as well as the others – had disliked feeling the constant threat, knowing that their lives were virtually out of their hands. But they all had a common goal – and that was survival. The will to fight. The soldiers had gotten that back, at least for now and they weren't giving it up.

"Roger that," Bennett added, "Sergeant Ogden will assist you for backup –"

Coach held up a quivering finger.

"Look."

The hinges had bent into shapes that were virtually pretzel – like. Blood pooled on the floor in front of them; dripping from hands coated in something congealed and terrible. Rochelle's own hands were sweating so badly, that her machete slid downwards; the blade stinging her skin. She swore and looked at it, wishing that she had been more careful. A thin red line streaked across her palm for a moment; before her blood welled over – a river bursting its banks.

Something in that metaphor broke her. With a yell; she charged towards the doors, swinging her machete in a silvery crescent. Stabbing and cutting furiously; she did not stop, even when she became plated in blood; continuing on when the doors finally buckled.

_I control my own fuck__in' destiny, thank you very much._


	15. Chapter 15

_Drip. _

_Drip. _

_Drip. _

Zoey looked up at the faucet dreamily; her body pampered by the fantastic heat of the shower. She hadn't had a hot one in weeks or one at all in the last two – and it had shown. As the grime washed away from her down the drain in a fluid track, she wondered with some distaste how Ellis could have stood to be around the smell of her._ She_ could barely stand the smell of herself; feeling the grime building up and up on her skin and the terrible layer of plaque on her teeth, thickening like a gruesome paste. She had scrubbed herself pink and her teeth as white as she could; using combinations of Ivory and Colgate to achieve it. She would have felt normally guilty about using someone else's toothbrush due to not having her own, but was literally at the point of not caring. She thought of an episode of the Happy Tree Friends that she had seen (being an avid fan for some reason, though not really knowing why), involving a grisly end to Petunia due to dirt and felt, unsurprisingly, some understanding in it. If it had not been the pain of her stomach being a distraction, it would truly have overtaken her mind and driven her nuts.

There was a rust stain down one side of the tub from what Zoey called the 'spill hole', caused by the plug fixture. She traced her toe down it, not thinking about the outside, just for a few wonderful moments. She was going to allow herself, goddammit, to have a few luxuries right now. The porridge sat inside her, her stomach still feeling warm and she felt extremely content.

_I could get used to this_.

And she had Ellis to owe for all of it.

Zoey still really didn't know what to think about everything. This shower had been abnormally long for that reason also. She would have to eventually go back out there and see him again; but what would she say? She was feeling an awful _lot _of things – one being confusion. True enough, she _had _thought about him – quite a lot, actually, when they parted ways. But she hadn't really known what to feel about him then, either. To get such a sudden rush at the sight of him was really overpowering for her – and she wasn't sure she was happy about it.

_(I always have to complicate things)_

It was true, though. She knew it was harsh but she really did. She was always the worrier in the group, the conscious one, the most sensitive one – feminism aside. Because of all of those things, she always seemed to be the person to cause the most trouble. She couldn't give those up – but Ellis wouldn't understand what they meant for them, either.

She turned onto her side slowly. A trickle ran down her lower back and she sighed, the warmth ever soothing. She wanted to cocoon herself in it forever; like when she pretended to be a mermaid as a kid at the pool in summer. She had learned then to be able to hold her breath for a long time; worrying her father on more than one occasion when he had taken her swimming. The idea of any large volume of water anymore, however, made her feel queasy and she dreaded the idea of ever having to go out on a boat again.

Zoey knew it was unfair of her, but ever since the brief conversation she had shared earlier, she had a strong feeling that he was hiding something. True enough, she had not asked too many questions as of yet, but they would come – as she expected the same from him. However, though she felt she would be honest with him, no matter how hard it might be for her to answer (which she knew it still would be, even though her pain had eased) she also had a feeling that he was almost afraid of her. She wondered what he would say to her if she asked about the girl on the wall; the one he had had his arms around. Zoey had not exactly been jealous when she had seen that image – but it had made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, thinking about what Ellis's life might have been like, before all this. She kept forgetting that there was such a time; that this wasn't all they knew. They had their forlorn memories of parents and loved ones – yes, there were many – and all of those things had occupied her mind in those two weeks; a brain-stew of regret and wishing.

That was the danger of it all, wasn't it? She needed him and he needed her – but both sides were too stubborn, as of yet, to bare all to one another. Could she relax around him, when that was the case – being too weak still to fend for herself – and learn to trust him?

She turned off the shower; the mixer creaking as she twisted it and sat on the edge of the bath. There was a mirror next to her with a green acrylic frame; image blurred from condensation. She wiped it off with the back of her hand. A girl stared back, whom she had known all of her life, but was still fighting with herself, as she always had been. Her face was a little thinner than she remembered; cheekbones jutting a little from the lack of food she'd had and there were dark rings around her eyes, made darker from how pale she was. She had always been pale – even on holiday. She didn't even burn – she just stayed the same colour all year round and she used to get tired of people asking her if she was ill.

The image faded; the room's mist settling back on the glass as Zoey began to dry off. She eyed her clothes, swimming in the bathtub and she thought of the debris that had been floating around that night in the ocean. They were battle scarred and ragged; much like all of their bodies. The bandages sagged; waterlogged from her bathing, their initial red spots faded to a brownish-pink. They would have to be changed again soon and she grunted with annoyance as she began pulling out her clothes and hanging them on the shower curtain rail, bathtub emptying with a series of slurps. She watched the plughole whirlpool and briefly compared it to her current state of mind.

Her hair fell round her shoulders in a dark tangle, which she proceeded to attack with a brush. There was a light brillo-pad of hairs, reddish-brown in colour that entangled the bristles and she wondered with some sadness if it had belonged to Ellis's mother. It smelled lightly of Estée Lauder perfume; a favourite of her own mother's and she felt as if that lady's hand had intertwined with hers, like a ghost. She ran it through her hair only enough that was necessary and set it down; reflecting again – fingerprints of the Choir Invisible around her.

Her own mother was long dead – something of which she could not change and had finally accepted with much torture with the length of time she'd had to think. But that thought in mind, it didn't stop her from wanting to help him. She held up the robe, soft against her cool breasts and wondered who had bought it for her.

_How hard it must have been for him to give me this._

He had had the strength to go back; to try and find something that he had lost. She on the other hand, had given in to the demands of the others and agreed to flee forever – to an island in the middle of the sea – leaving everyone else behind to tempt fate with the damned. It was a fact that she hated, _hated _– and no amount of persuasion from Bill, before his death or from the others afterward would ever stop that feeling of remorse. She had wondered for a long time, if there was a God, whether she had fallen prey to His calling; in that it had not been her time yet, to leave this place called America and go live somewhere that no longer belonged to or was governed by anyone; except whatever sea creatures or birds had not fallen prey to the pandemic.

She had fallen back into the dark, yes – where the infected were rampant and death lurked, forever being the ice down her spine. But she had something better; something she would not have had if she'd remained on the boat with the others.

Freedom.

Her realisation of that fact, unbeknownst to her, was most likely what had triggered her, on a spur of spontaneity, to kiss Ellis. He had given her back what had been most precious to her – something that she had fought hard to hang on to and what she felt, aside from him, was the very last thing she had left to call her own. Having escaped imprisonment herself; she knew how claustrophobic and invasive it felt, knowing that they could be put to death by the military at any instant if they proved not to be of any use, feeling imprisoned and trapped by people supposedly their rescuers. Had that been how it was for him, too?

She felt something inside her growing for him and the dread of danger; the fear of attachment, growing with it. She wondered dimly how long it would be until she was fully healthy again and able to face the music. Judging from the way the porridge had lifted and invigorated her, she felt it would be soon. Maybe too soon – but Zoey also felt that even though Ellis had given her a piece of herself back, an understanding that made her breath catch had also surfaced.

He was also inadvertently taking it away from her.

Zoey knew full well, that Ellis was strong. He had carried her easily, as he might carry a box of feathers – and with that strength, she knew that she ought to feel a sense of nagging vulnerability, especially as she was alone with him; as she had on a couple of occasions (although he had never actually _tried_ to make a pass) with Francis. Thing was though, she didn't in the slightest. She knew he wouldn't try to hurt her and she had never met another person so far, in their so-called travels, of whom she had been certain of that fact – and the fact that she knew him _less _than Francis, Louis or Bill should have served as something to illustrate a reason to not trust him.

There was another thing, though, that terrified her – the idea of driving him away; with whatever problems or issues she might have – and hurting him. Although Zoey wasn't exactly experienced herself when it came to men –

(_You got that right, bucko_)

– she could tell when one liked her if it was obvious enough. She had a feeling that Ellis did – from the way he acted around her, talked to her and held her when she fell, tenderly as if she was breakable and not – as her friends often called her – a klutzy galoot. She did not want to be vulnerable toward him and had sworn to try her best to inhibit any developing feelings; but, at the same time –

(_I can't be alone again I just can't_)

It was a dilemma and what had tortured her in the past hour and three quarters or so that the shower had taken – and now, body just beginning to de-prune, she had to go and face it; still having not the slightest idea what to say. She shivered; the mist having cooled quickly and pulled the robe around her, as musical notes began to fill the room from an acoustic guitar. The tuning of it wasn't perfect and the hand that played them was hardy, but it didn't take her long to recognise the song. Instead of the dread she had expected at being right, however; the feeling that had been growing inside her before swelled even more and her eyes began to brim, tears fighting to spill at her ambivalence, her frustration with herself intertwining with hopeless happiness.

She gained courage to leave the bathroom; damp footsteps trailing down the wooden floorboards forming and slowly fading, like the ghosts she had encountered in that room. She found the cause of her thoughts in the living room; eyes down as he played the guitar – an old but well-loved pine Tanglewood. His lashes obscured the blue-grey of his eyes as he hummed the tune in a husky tone, not knowing she was there.

(_I'd fight for you I'd lie it's true give my life for you you know I'd always come for you_)

"Nickelback," she said, causing him to stop playing.

He looked up at her and gave her a sad smile. "You like 'em too, huh?"

"Yeah , I really do. That one's my favourite, actually."

Ellis set down the guitar as she sat down beside him. The sofa was old; the worn back covered with a patchwork quilt and it groaned a little as she lowered herself onto it. She touched his hand, but he didn't react; perhaps because he was thinking.

"Dedicated that song to a girl I knew once," he said eventually. "She was always poppin' in and outta my life, back in the day. Always said I couldn't sing."

"You can't be all that bad if I recognised it."

"That's kind of ya to say," he replied. "Shame the rest of my band ain't around to hear it. Probs would've made 'em cry with joy."

Zoey laughed – as he held her hand; intertwining his fingers with hers gently. The feelings of doubt were creeping in again, but her body was forcing them down. To feel briefly happy, in this time when there was so little to be had, was enough for her right now.

"I really wouldn't mind listening," she said to him earnestly. He looked delighted for a second, his expression toning down as he began making enthusiastic excuses.

"I mean, sure if you like but, I normally play bass – she's broke now, goddamn zombies – and I've not picked up this thing in God knows how long. It doesn't sound like it useta either, what with it being old and my ma's and –"

She let go of his hand and sat down in front of him. She tried her best to pull the robe around her legs; but part of one remained exposed; a long ribbon of paleness against the pink. She went a similar colour and tried to ignore it.

"Come on," she teased, "humour me. Worst I'll do is bite."

* * *

><p>Ellis played for her for a couple of hours; teaching her a thing or two along the way. He showed her how to play certain chords and how to position her fingers properly on the frets. His own fingers were well-calloused – from heavy lifting at Sully's and years of bass playing – so he felt pretty much nothing at the very tips, but if the strings were hurting her, she didn't show it; her pixie face taut in an expression of determination as she handled the instrument, practicing them as he guided her hands. He found it hard not to comment on how lovely they were, something he had realised long before – her nails gentle, delicate ovals. He had wanted to teach Polly, but she never had the time for music; preferring to be a listener rather than a learner.<p>

She managed 'Smoke on the Water' in one go and Ellis applauded her cheerfully.

"You on it, darlin'!"

Zoey stood up and took a bow, her expression goofy as she did a caricature of one of the more famous kinds of celebrity speech.

"I'd like to thank the Academy," she said, feigning crocodile tears, "my teacher Ellis for teaching me and again for listening –"

He threw a cushion at her playfully.

"Girl, I've seen Keanu Reeves give a better actin' performance than that."

She pretended to look hurt as she sat back down, her mouth an open O.

"Oh really?"

"Hey, I'm playin' – but come on, you can't slow time like he could in the Matrix."

_Only when you look at me_, he thought, but didn't add. Her wrists had slackened around the neck of the acoustic, so he took the guitar off her and replaced it where it had been; leaning haphazardly against the fireplace woodpile.

"Ellis?"

He looked back at her. She was doing what she had been before; evading his gaze. He knew something was coming and it made him nearly as nervous as he had been when he first saw her.

"I've been thinking," she started, taking a deep breath, "about everything. I know I'm a mess right now, but I really want to _do_ something. I really want to help you out and if that means going out to find your mom –"

"– Zoey, girl, you shouldn't be worryin' 'bout that –" Ellis cut across, but she shook her head to stop him.

"I _am_ though," she said, hugging her arms. "I don't like being hurt – nobody obviously does – but at the same time, I'd hate to think that you had to wait on me to get better when time's running out."

Ellis cupped her elbows in his hands; riskily toeing the line, but in an act that made him happy, she didn't flinch. He really didn't think he deserved to feel happy; not when he had lied to her like he had – his mother, God bless her soul, not being the real reason he was here. He was guilty about that, or felt he really should be with the love he had for his mother, but he was putting his culpable feelings off, using fear as an excuse – especially when it came to her room. He knew that he ought to feel awful; that he had chosen, instead of looking for his mother – who he felt was dead, but could still not be sure – to instead look for her. But as he gazed into the sea-green gateways that were her eyes, his reality and initiatives were coming apart; like the back of an unzipped dress.

"It ain't your fault," he told her, giving her another smile. "Can't let mama see ya with those wounds, can I? She'd hit me for bein' an irresponsible ass."

Zoey nodded, but didn't look entirely convinced. As Ellis looked at her though, he felt a warmth growing between them that before had only been a hint, or perhaps a wish. He drank it in, that happy feeling – and wanted so badly to have known her before all this. He didn't exactly think she thought of him as a random guy whose house she was staying in, but at the same time; he couldn't help wanting to know more about her. Holding back the questions was getting harder and harder for him to do.

"Listen..." he started, "if you're feelin' right enough in a day or two, we could set out for a bit. Y'know, check out round Savannah and the like. Jus' don't wanna stress ya too bad when you're healin's all."

"I'm a big, tough girl," she replied, smiling. "Think I can handle an amble about town, even when it's got a thousand to one population ratio of zombies to humans."

Ellis got up, holding up his hand to her. She accepted and he helped her to her feet. She stood a head shorter than he was; giving him a feeling of masculinity that made him almost proud.

"I gotta ask though – know it maybe ain't my place, so I ain't worried none if you'd prefer not to say – don't s'pose you wanna sail back out to the Keys?"

She thought about it briefly while Ellis looked on at her in earnest. It didn't take her long to come up with an answer.

"No," she replied. "Not if I don't have to. Never wanted to in the first place, really."

"How come?"

"Because I don't run away from my problems," she said, her tone perhaps a bit sharper than she had meant. "I prefer to face them, like I was always taught to. If there's people out there who could survive if they were to know what I do, then I think that's worth fighting for."

Ellis realised then how much of a good person she was and began contrasting her with himself. The difference made him feel a little sick and he felt some of his happiness float away; like autumn leaves revealing a tree's bare, bonelike branches. What would she really think of him, if she knew? He hadn't exactly planned to run away from it all – but what had he expected to happen if he found her? Of course they wouldn't just stay only the two of them – he had known that, but he had feared going back to the others, when the time came. Contacting them had never wavered far from his mind, but yet, even with her conscious and fairly well, he'd procrastinated still.

He would have to contact them tonight. He had wanted to wait six days – but he had not expected to find her in six. Three days had been a long enough period of silence and it had been a maw in his conscience. He had loved being with her; feeling like only the both of them existed in the world these past few hours, but his responsibilities were settling in – both to her, himself and to the others.

He had also missed them terribly (something he would never have admitted to Nick) and couldn't help worrying about them, as they probably were him.

Zoey yawned, her eyelids adorably droopy – and Ellis wanted to give her a hug where she stood, slim and spindly in that fluffy robe.

"Sorry to be antisocial. I'm just a bit worn out right now."

He grinned at her as he rubbed the corner of her eye – looking, as she was, like an extremely pretty Peanuts character. He had loved that show when he was younger and had always wanted Schroeder's piano; a Christmas request that both of his parents had loudly refused.

"Need help up the stairs?" He asked, cheekily. "You seemed to have a lil' trouble gettin' down, if my memory's anythin' to go by."

She snorted.

"I was just showing off my floor-tolerance skills."

"You didn't complain."

Zoey rolled her eyes.

"I'll live, don't worry."

As she left for bed, Ellis crossed the room; picking up the walkie-talkie, the smooth black plastic feeling strangely cold. He warmed it in his hands; breath escaping in a sigh.

_I do, though_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: The song's called 'I'd Come for You', which I highly recommend checking out, because I think it's really a nice song ^^**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Thanks again for the reviews, guys! They're helping me a lot - because I'm beginning to finally get to the really good bit :) I've also updated the previous chapters slightly; to help the flow and sharpen continuity between chapters, so there'll be fewer spelling/grammar errors next time you look ^^  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>The dawn was crisp and fresh; the sky painted a deep peach when Louis and Francis set out, silent as ever. Louis had begun in the morning asking questions; but as Francis had either not answered or refused to tell him, he had given up. As Louis stepped behind him; tracks ever impossible to miss regardless of the separation distance (which there was a fair amount, as Louis could not walk quickly – having to use a stick to help himself along) due to Francis's size thirteen leather boots, he didn't feel like he was following a real person at all. <em>

_The walk was tolerable until the sun rose; baking in its heat and causing Louis's feet to burn, sand grains fiery and irritating. He hobbled along, trying to ignore it. He was already sweating profusely and loosened his tie; patches of perspiration greying further his already stained shirt. The sea glittered beside him; tempting him with its cool, watery caress, but he sensed Francis was far from in the mood to go swimming. The salty air settled in his lungs, his thirst growing and he felt like as if he was ten years old again; about to whine to his mother for water on their annual trip to see his grandparents in El Paso._

_Louis hadn't the faintest inkling, when they crashed on the island around a week ago, exactly how large it was. For a key, it was pretty huge; having a circumference of about thirty kilometres, but it was elongated and misshapen; so, from the tapered edge of the island where they had made camp, they had not been able to tell this. As he followed Francis, marking the sand every time he had walked a kilometre or thereabouts with his big toe, he wondered painfully how far Francis had _really_ walked – and why it was so goddamn important that he should follow. Francis was a jerk, but Louis knew he wasn't a jerk for _no_ reason at all (which he would be if he was making him walk for nothing) so he had faith in him that it was something big _–_ especially seeing as Francis was being the quiet one right now – Louis having made all the earlier conversational efforts, for a change._

_Seven markings went by; Louis's feet now swollen, when Francis all of a sudden paused, looking around. _

"_What're you –"_

"_Shhh!"_

_Francis held out a hand to him and began to approach the sea of green that was the small island jungle. He began feeling around on the trees; Louis becoming more and more confused as he did so. He wished there were no salt in the sea, because if he were able, he'd jump in there and lower the water level down by a couple of metres. His spit had dried; creating a gummy residue on his lips that was uninvitingly sticky. _

_Perhaps Francis had heard Louis's pants; because without warning, a green object hit him on the side of the head. A small jolt of pain shot through his skull and he swore; Francis ignoring him as he searched amongst the trees. Louis opened his mouth to yell at him, when his toe caught the object next to his foot that had collided hard with his head. _

_It was a canteen. _

_Louis picked it up with a sense of desperate joy; hearing the liquid sloshing inside. He opened it and drank what remained. The water was unappetisingly warm and tasted lightly of whatever unpleasant alcohol Francis had kept in there before water (Southern Comfort and Smirnoff – often in an unholy mixture if he filled it up when drunk) but Louis could not have cared less. _

_He shook the last few droplets over his head and breathed a sigh of relief; as Francis paused his search; his hand resting on one of the trunks. _

"_Thanks, man." He breathed, tossing it back to Francis. He caught it with one hand and Louis gave him an impressed look. Francis, however, did not flinch and held out a beckoning hand to Louis; his expression as severe as ever. _

"_This way," said Francis. He pulled out something from the trunk with a splintering sound; which Louis realised was his Swiss Army knife. He folded it and tucked it into his jacket pocket; turning into the undergrowth; branches crackling under his heavy boots. Louis took a look at the ground, with its many stray twigs and groaned to himself; already feeling their sting on his sore feet. Something bit him on the neck and he swatted at it irritably; a mosquito spiralling backward onto the sand, already dying. _

_The path was shadowy; the light in the jungle dim in comparison to the beach. However, the heat here was much worse; the canopy acting as a heavy cloak. Louis unbuttoned his shirt, took it off and tied it around his waist. It wasn't a great improvement, but it was better than doing nothing at all. He couldn't remember ever feeling so worn down from the weather – feeling more like he was trapped in the Amazon than some island off the shore of the states. He wondered how much sweat he had lost amongst the dank humidity. It had not been long, but the water was already beginning to feel like it was an age away. _

_They continued on for about another mile and a half; Francis stopping every so often to check a nearby tree trunk, after which he nodded and moved on. Louis, having still received no explanation, was becoming increasingly frustrated. His leg was aching so badly, that the weight he was putting on the branch he had chosen to use as a cane was causing his hand to blister; due to the slickness of his palm rubbing against the rough. _

_The only pleasant thing, upon entering the jungle, had been the smell; an exotic mix of woods and climbing flowers. However, even that was beginning to fade. Louis wasn't exactly sure what was masking it, but it was something that smelled worse than anything he'd ever before smelled – and throughout the 'apocalypse', he'd smelled a lot of funky shit. He tried to place it; nostrils subconsciously wrinkling with disgust – and came up with a description along the lines of six-month-old barbecued beef. It was smoky, undoubtedly – but fleshy and rotten – and it was beginning to make the hairs on the back of his neck prickle; sparks of static in the persistent heat. He held his shirt up over his mouth as he pushed through the leaves and ferns in the way, Francis ducking under a low branch which he eyed with a sort of odd understanding. _

"_Francis," Louis groaned, voice muffled behind his shirt, "what the _fuck_ is that stink?"_

_Francis didn't give him a verbal answer – instead just looking back at him with sad eyes. It only served to make Louis more worried – having panicked enough over how Francis had looked the previous night. He wasn't pale anymore, this time, or afraid (as he had been yesterday) – but instead had a look that reflected what they'd all felt the night they'd heard the announcements about the pandemic over the radio. _

_(A new viral strain is here health authorities say there is nothing to worry about but citizens are reminded that they ought to stay indoors with their families because it is extremely contagious) _

_Hopelessness. _

_(If you are infected yourself or know somebody who has contracted the disease known as Green Flu tell them to segregate themselves and immediately call a quarantine officer on the following number)_

_And Francis, even when Bill had died – even, goddamn it, when _Zoey _died – had never, ever looked like that before. He had always managed to get along somehow (probably, for the most part, by complaining rudely about how everything sucked). But now; his face reflected an expression that was much like that of a father who had lost a son. _

_Louis had never felt more frightened for the both of them when he saw him then. _

_Francis turned away from him; walking slowly forward. Louis looked up through the undergrowth distractedly and saw something which made him drop his walking stick. The sky was no longer the even, bright blue it had been when they set out. It had turned greyish-pink; the top fronds of the trees dusted with something that looked like snow –_

_(Ash)_

_He felt a deep chill creeping within him –_

_(Why is there ash)_

– _just as Francis pulled aside the foliage; to a clearing nestled between the trees. He held it aside for Louis as he manoeuvred his body through; walking stick lost between the trees._

_What he saw made the coldness explode with him; his shirt falling away from his mouth even though the smell had peaked to appalling. He had stopped breathing; all concentration focussed on what he saw. _

_All he could do, or felt now that he would always do, was see... and see. _

_The clearing was a man-made one (around five hundred metres by five hundred); a frame of splintered trees around the edges that led into the forest. The floor was a mixture of earth and ash. Louis bent down; picking some of it up. It ran through his fingers and settled on the ground; the dull brownish heap a blemish on the thin carpet of grey. It stained his fingers; sticking to them from the sweat forever emanating from his palms, now as cold as the rest of him. _

_Louis approached the scene closer and held his hands up against the wire mesh that was the perimeter fence; the unlocked door squealing gently next to him from the light breeze. He dimly registered the sounds and deciphered what they meant to him. _

_(They sound like)_

_A blackened thing stuck halfway out of the ground, with minuscule blue eyes and tattered hair. _

_(Screams)_

_The image of it registered quickly in his head as it dawned on him what it was. He stepped through the gate, Francis following. He picked it up; its false body pooled at the base were the plastic had melted. His thumb grazed the tip of it gently and a piece crumbled away. _

_It was a Barbie doll. _

_Which meant that its owner must somewhere be in there, lost amongst the –_

_(Bodies)_

_Piles of them, scattered around –_

_(So many)_

_Strewn about, like toys. _

_(They're everywhere)_

_He fell back on the ground, his leg bursting into fire. Francis held his shoulders as he clutched the doll tightly; tears spilling over as he felt for them all. _

_There were hundreds of them. Hundreds of people; in scorched piles scattered about a central rectangular grey building. He could see their eyes, looking over at him; glassy blue, glassy green, glassy grey –_

"_They weren't infected," he whispered in horror, Francis gripping his shoulders more tightly. "They weren't infected, Francis, they weren't..."_

_(They murdered a little girl)_

_It choked him, like hands and a thin croak escaped his throat in place of what they both already knew to be true._

_Francis finally spoke. A crow cawed in the air, a common sound that had now become rare; singing a tune as melancholy as the death in this place of hell they had found._

"_They were carriers," he said, his voice ice. "Carriers that proved not to be of any more use."_

_Francis held Louis out a hand, helping him up. He continued to speak whilst heading towards the building. _

"_Everything's in here," he continued as he walked, avoiding looking at the dead strewn beside him. "There's medical logs, communications files and everything. It goes down for fucking miles. Most of the place is made up of cells."_

_The door of the place was open already; propped open with a branch by Francis the day before. The inside was dark; a putrid mouth threatening to spill something about humanity that Louis knew would break his faith. He did not want to go in there. But as the terrible smell of death lurked around him, he knew it was something he could not choose. It was a debt he owed the innocent; the people here who had met their end, asking for no more than help._

_A debt of knowledge. _

_Louis followed Francis into the building; flicking on his gun spotlight. The entry corridor was long; cobalt blue doors lining the sides with glass windows in them; slits reinforced with mesh. An elevator loomed at one end; doors chrome-silver and immobile, intimidating on speculation of where it would take them. He squinted at the numbers on the top of the door; running his torch over them. _

_The place had twenty-three floors._

"_How could they build this place with nobody knowing, Francis?" He asked, desperately looking for an explanation. "Goddamn, surely other countries, other places – they must have had satellites overlooking the place, seeing what was going on –"_

_Francis snorted._

"_The United States Government can do whatever the fuck they want, Louis," He replied bitterly. "They have enough money stored away for that. Reason why no other country's found it's because this key appears on no maps and a signal, 24/7, is emitted broadcasting a fake image of the place to satellites. Anyone found out otherwise, they were dead."_

"_How do you know –"_

_Francis flicked on his own torch and stopped at the end of the corridor. He opened the door to his right and went inside. Louis shone his light downward and nearly broke his neck; stopped only by the siderail sliding in his grasp. A spirograph of stairs, like concrete teeth was the room's content; the gap in the centre a fall of infinity into darkness. _

_It was a long climb down and throughout it, Louis was still trying to understand; his breath coming out in a mix of low, belligerent murmurs to stark, horrified sighs. The concrete felt dry as a bone beneath his toes; the air thick and stagnant, a damp smell lingering as a chilling alternative to the rank odour that had grasped the surface. _

_Francis stopped at floor fifteen. The lock on the door was broken; shot away into shards that lay in a shiny scattering either side of it. Francis pushed it aside and led Louis through. The smell became ever more grim; the decay now wet and fresh. Louis ran his torch along the walls, lined with cells and let out a shrill shriek, cupping his hand over his mouth when Francis turned around. A corpse stared at him, out through the bars; its eyes replaced with a cluster of fat, yellow maggots – mouth wide in a yawn of craggy teeth. Louis shuddered terribly; his torch a vibrating white disk. It moved away; settling back on Francis, who had begun to move again._

_They navigated a series of similar hallways. Louis didn't look into the cells again; but every so often the miasma of rotting flesh would return – letting him know that he was passing yet another of the dead. He had encountered so many before, so many bodies, so much death. It had made him sleepless at times, even cry _–_ but it never made his body break down in the way these were doing. There was a reason for it; one that he and Francis both knew, however, that made an encounter with these people so different. _

_(We could have all been one of them)_

_Francis retrieved a card key from his pocket and ran it through the lock. The small LED indicator flashed green as he pushed it open; flicking on the lights. The glare, as his eyes had become so used to the blackness, sent sparks shooting in Louis's vision and he shook his head against it. _

"_Emergency Power's on," said Francis, replacing the card key in his pocket. Louis eyed the picture of the man on the front as it slid in; the face elderly and crinkled – neat white hair topped with a military cap. His expression was as blank as the concrete that the facility was made from; expressionless and obsolete. "Didn't mention it as I've no idea how much there is. I had to show you this room, first – so you could see it all with your own eyes. I sat down here to read everything."_

_Louis fell into a sliding chair at the long oval table; legs buckling under him, bad one feeling as if it was made from agar jelly. Francis tossed him a bundle of files; topped with a neat, rectangular black notebook – Research Logbook, Lieutenant Colonel Dr Benjamin Skelly, M.D. – stamped at the top in neat, gold lettering. He began pouring through them all; turning the pages quickly, almost madly – the illness inside him growing. He could not stop and as he read, he began shaking harder and harder. _

_The files were medical files. They contained children, adults, the elderly – race, gender and age completely varied. They did, however, have two things next to all of their names in common. _

_(Coraline Merryfield, 26, F, White. Carrier died during test)_

_(Alan Dubois, 14, M, Afro-Carribean. Carrier died during test)_

_(Michelle Aoyama, 72, F, Japanese. Carrier died during test)_

_(Carrier died during test)_

"_They experimented on the carriers they found," Louis breathed, the file of a ten year old girl falling from his hands in an arc of filing paper. "They needed them and they didn't care. When they couldn't use them anymore, then they –"_

"_For the greater good," spat Francis. _

_Louis punched the table; a coffee mug flying upward and shattering when it hit the ground. He let out a howl, Francis watching him helplessly. _

"_They started it all," he said, unable to believe it. "_They_ started it. On their own fucking _people_!"_

_(Tests in Pennsylvania have grown out of control)_

_(Weapon testing must cease – all subjects must be exterminated)_

_(Subjects have spread the virus to the populace)_

_(Refugees must be scanned for carrier gene)_

_(Medical examination must be carried out on possible carriers to achieve a vaccine)_

_(Examination)_

_(EXAMINATION)_

_The word appeared to leap out of the page at him. _

"_They failed because it mutates so fast," Francis said. "It mutates _daily_, Louis. The transmission enzyme or something breaks down in light. They tried as hard as they could, but they couldn't even keep it localised long enough to even take a peek at the fucking thing. As soon as it gained that trait, the weapon they made became something beyond their control."_

_Louis rested his head in his hands._

"_Why would they do this though?" He spluttered, finding it harder as time passed to speak. "On their own people –"_

"_It makes sense," said Francis quietly. "They wanted to know how it would act; like, on a metropolitan scale. They could infect an area, put it down to terrorism in the press and blow the place to hell when they were done. Nobody need be any the wiser – except that, in practice, they fucked the hell up." _

_Louis couldn't help himself. He spat inside the doctor's logbook and threw it down in unbridled fury, where it hit the wall with a clunk. _

"_Why here, though, Francis?" He asked, suddenly realising how odd it was that it was this _particular _room. "If you found the files and logbook somewhere else –"_

"_Because this room's where I heard the message," Francis interrupted, his face fading in colour to that awful previous shade of oatmeal again. "I followed it down here."_

_He opened the channel up on the computer and it played; the face of a familiar leader lighting up the room from the large overhead monitor at the end. Louis listened to his words, feeling as if they were being carved into his flesh. _

_(The disease is spreading)_

_(The Americas are overrun and it has reached mainland Europe outbreaks are scattered but threaten to breach containment)_

_(Discussions are being held about a possible tactical strike to control the outburst if last attempts fail)_

_The rest of the man's words became greyed out by Louis's mind. Francis could see that and switched off the monitor. It was dated two days ago. His insides rippled as he fought back the need to vomit, the understanding flashing in neon letters, clear and bright as blood in his mind. _

_"It's worse than vampires," Francis muttered, unheard by Louis who felt as if he were falling.  
><em>

_They were trapped on an island, with no means of escape –_

_(Tactical _fucking_ strike)_

– _next to a country that was about to be nuked. _


	17. Chapter 17

Rochelle took a long swig of the bottle of bourbon that Nick had found. It tasted terrible, as she had expected; but it had been, currently, a lifeline for her. He grasped the neck; holding it tightly in his grasp whilst shaking his head against her actions.

"Don't."

Rochelle glared at him, taking another, this time, deeper chug.

"Honey," she slurred angrily, "I haven't had a drink in Lord knows how long. It's what I need right now. I wouldn't be able to cope otherwise, if I didn't once in a while."

Nick glanced at her wistfully; his mouth thinning into little more than a line while she ran the fiery liquid down her throat. He wanted to intervene, but he had spent the last several hours searching for things to say. Rochelle liked it that way, anyway. It was simpler than talking – attempting to make conversation with someone who she really had no idea how to deal with right now.

Applegate let out a sigh next to them all; deep in troubled slumber.

(_You can't leave me_)

(_DON'T LEAVE ME_)

The recent memories of the previous night was the cause of all the quiet; the deep discomfort between those who had survived – carriers and servicemen alike.

They were alive.

But oh, how they'd paid the price for it.

Coach looked over at Nick sternly.

"Let the girl be," he said softly. "Been hard enough today."

Nick smirked to himself, almost pityingly as he got up, his back to the view outside the window that had transfixed him. Bennett had left to find supplies, but had not yet returned. They all had a feeling that they shouldn't have let him go alone; but the fact was that Jay Bennett had begged them for time by himself. None of them had the heart to deny him that. Over the last few hours, they had watched him deteriorate, thin strands of sanity snapping ever-so-slowly in the depths of his mind. Each one came as a twitch, an odd action or a remark that didn't make sense – and had culminated in him leaving them.

The five of them who remained from the fighting the night before were now on one of the larger keys; the panhandle that was Florida a grey smudge on the sky-sea horizon. They were currently inside a house; one of the small, brightly-painted ones that stood on stilts overlooking the Gulf. They had been sat together in the den; discussing for a while what had happened with little enthusiasm before phasing out into quiet. The chopper stood; a green beacon that now served as a monument – inescapable, unavoidable proof that what had happened had been real.

"I can't just sit here anymore, Coach," he replied. "It's been hours since he left. Buddy, he looked like he was out of his mind."

Coach's eyes swivelled to the floor. He was slumped over in a corner; a pistol wound on his thigh. It had been bandaged crudely by Nick, whilst on the chopper ride over the sea. Rochelle also had a gunshot wound on her arm, although not as bad and he had given her the bottle of booze to cope with the pain, like a gentleman. He hadn't expected her, however, to knock it back as hard as she was doing and he was worried that she was gonna make herself ill.

Plus, selfishly maybe, he wouldn't have minded having a few belts himself. He felt he didn't need to be here much, either. Just for an evening, he wanted to be taken away to somewhere where he just couldn't feel. It had been the only full bottle in the house, despite desperate searching; the others having either been drunk or used to make Molotov cocktails.

Maybe that was why he made excuses to leave in the first place. As he closed the door on a worried Coach and a current Rochelle who didn't have much left of anything in her, he felt the need for stimulants growing stronger. Stimulants, hallucinogens – fucking anything would do.

Nick, in his previous life, had been a casual recreational drug user. He figured it was casual because he kept his usage to a minimum, not wanting to become addicted; but he also had a tendency to go all out, especially during Slim's parties that he held in his penthouse every other weekend back in Boston. The last time had been four months ago; when Nick had done three lines of Slim's own special blow – the pure kind, due to him being a favourite of his dealer – and gone out on the town. He couldn't remember much of what had happened afterwards; only finding himself upon waking in a ditch missing several of his more important articles of clothing.

The thought of it now was making him grind his teeth together. Not being able to smoke regularly had been painful enough, especially in the past week – but this was worse. Nick was thirty years from the prostate cancer that would eventually claim his life, but his health was now very much last on his agenda. He walked past the chopper (ignoring it more easily than he thought he would've been able to) and commenced through the empty streets, long-evacuated in the health scare –somewhat stupidly, to the mainland – also, all the while, finding himself wondering, agitated, where he could score.

He ought to be searching for Bennett, instead of a means of getting high. The town was a small one, so he figured it wouldn't be too difficult. Alone in the low sun, day burned away mindlessly when they ought to have been moving, the place seemed like a ghost town; a sense of eeriness present that was different than how it had been back on the mainland. Some of it was burned down; the exoskeletons of buildings tar-black; poking out from the ground like geometric ruins. He stopped by a charred gatepost and touched it curiously; his fingers, along with at least two of his rings becoming coated with a veil of soot. He smeared them across his long-ruined suit with a low grunt and continued moving on towards the town's excuse for a hospital. He could tell he was getting close, as it had been with the majority of hospitals they had visited; CEDA safety posters and flyers dancing around his feet like bright, confused moths. Every time he saw them; he kept feeling more and more like he wanted to burn each and every one of them – especially the ones telling them not to carry weapons.

It was bullshit. It had always been bullshit; from the start until the finish. It was an irony how much Nick had begun to trust in the authorities, considering how much he felt let down by them. He passed by a trailer; a trike in the yard with rusty pedals strewn on its side and felt an overwhelming surge of pity for its owner – a startle to Nick that made him feel more than a little angry with himself.

Nick felt less and less of a 'man' these days and was becoming tired of it. He had lived 'freely' all of his life, earning what he had (however illicitly, which on many occasions had been the case) off mostly his own back. If he could have his own way with everything, he'd stop trying to fight his way to the authorities, to try and get back to what was 'orderly'. Society, in his opinion, had always been a little overrated. Chimps had less than a two percent difference in DNA than humans did and they coped just fine without such complex things as prejudice, war – and, of course, the plague of the twenty first century. They slept, they ate, they fucked, they nurtured. In Nick's eyes, that was the way it was supposed to be. Money helped that and had almost always given him what he needed; even though the means of acquiring it had, in itself, come at a price.

Nick had been shot before. It had been a long time ago, round about eight years. He got caught cheating at Blackjack in a sleazy bar in some sleazy town when the owner dragged him upstairs and dropped a nine in his guts; bullet lodging in his appendix. He had survived it, but barely; getting off with several death threats and a two-and-a-half week coma. He had come out of it with only a note telling him that the good life for him, for a while, was over – from Janey, his second wife, informing him that she had left him for a Brazilian multi-millionaire called Augusto. You'd like him, she said. Owns a company handling processed goods, she said. She even was sweet enough to invite him to dinner at his villa when he woke; kindly giving him the guy's home address.

Nick had not cried. He instead became livid, which had always been the easier way out for him. He simply wrote back that she could suck his processed dick for all he cared – along with an inclusion of several broken body parts from the expensive collectable dolls she had obsessed over since her teenage years; which she stupidly had not taken with her. He did it because as retarded as it was, he knew that would make her cry more than if he were to hit her; something he'd done a couple of times when he was drunk.

Nick had always known how to really get to people and had once been proud of it. But now, as he stood outside the ramshackle establishment that was the medical facility of the place, he found himself thinking about what _Rochelle_ actually made of him. It worried him that the thought made him slightly afraid. He _did_ like Rochelle, her company appealing to him. He'd admitted to himself at the beginning that he wouldn't mind a piece of 'that' action, even if he hadn't been entirely serious at the time. But the idea of her being with anyone else made him feel surprisingly jealous, like a kid having a toy that he didn't want to share.

_Being protective isn't a crime, is it?_

He stepped past a pair of crashed ambulances and then into the building. As usual, he was greeted by a rotten stench. He coughed a little; spluttering at the thick, biological musk that hung in the air. Bodies lay around, propped up in the waiting room over desks and on chairs. He figured that they were victims of the virus that hadn't gotten the pleasure of evac. He glanced over their corpses, his torch skimming over their chests; riddled with bullet holes from a 'no-risk' policy. Flies droned in the air; insects and mould climbing over the withered remains.

"Bennett?" He yelled out, voice slightly squeaky from his pinched nostrils.

No reply came; not even a rustle, which he was always holding out an ear for. That surprised him; since he was pretty sure, considering they were in need of medical supplies to treat Applegate, a hospital was certainly a place worth perhaps taking a 'small' glance in. The hospital was U – shaped, with a set of glass double doors leading to a reasonably-sized courtyard; concrete slabs – that had been previously well cared for – long since overgrown and downcast, by weeds and the boot-dirt of the desperate many who had pushed their way in, hoping for any help or advice they could get. Their presence showed; the two large, green CEDA tents trampled flat. More bodies were scattered around, their limbs at strange angles where the stampede of feet had broken them many times over. He scowled at them and they did back at him, their faces twisted in dead snarls.

He knelt down, feeling around over the tent material, hoping to find something useful. He didn't know an awful lot about brain haemorrhaging, except that it could kill you. With many miles between them and the few doctors left in the States, he had high doubts whether the kid was going to last an awful lot longer. He was hoping he'd simply just missed Bennett; in that he had come and left before he had gotten there. It wasn't impossible, with the hospital reachable via several routes in the half-mile or so it was away from the house.

His hands traced a lumpy bulge underneath that rattled with a plastic tune when he rapped his knuckles against it. Expecting, as was normally the case, to find something gruesome, he opened the backpack he had brought with him and lifted up the green canvas bracingly, throwing it back when he lost patience. However, instead his eyes rested on a feast of medication. He threw it all into the pack, having no idea what would be useful – but felt, it would be better to take it all, better safe than sorry, yes –

What attracted him most was the small bottle that came last; a brown, plastic cylinder with a lilac label.

**Diazepam (10 mg tablets)**

**Take ****one**** with food or milk per day**

**Do not exceed the recommended daily dose **

_Valium._

Nick could have kissed it. Not caring whether they were expired or rain-damaged, he immediately popped two; their powdery flavour grazing his tongue. He slumped over, pistol at his side and let them, for a few moments work their own brand of magic on his body; their cooling sensation causing his limbs to feel heavy. His eyes rolled upwards, the sensation currently in the same league as coming.

He was still in disbelief. He still didn't get why –

* * *

><p>– <em>the doctor had a gun. They all had guns; something they had used for their own protection. The difference was, he was pointing his gun at<em> them.

"_What's going –" started Coach, taking a step towards him._

"_Stay back," he spat, his eyes looking around desperately; crazily even. Outside they heard a metallic grinding sound and the smashing of concrete; which made Rochelle jump. _

"_I'm leaving first," he said, nodding violently. He pulled down his mask, revealing a mad grin, trickles of drool framing his pointed chin. "I have to get out first. I need help, they can help me, see –"_

_He held up his arm. The sleeve was tattered; blood coursing down his lab coat. Each drop followed a similar path; the sticky fluid collecting on his arm hair before settling in the ridges of his knuckles. _

_He had been bitten. _

_Coach looked on at him, trying to maintain an expression of calm; but when he spoke, his voice was shaking. The man's hand was quivering; the gun barrel pointed squarely at his chest. The man was afraid. He should be, too – because although he knew he was about to die, it wasn't going to be the infected that were going to kill him. _

"_Listen here, son," Coach said slowly, taking another step. "Nobody here's gonna hurt'cha now _–_ are we?"_

_He looked around at them all with pleading eyes. Everyone nodded carefully, attempting not to say or do anything to set him off. The only exception as always was Nick, who simply avoided eye contact, not speaking a word. Applegate spluttered suddenly, clenching tighter around Jones, who was still holding him up with some strength he'd found; now beginning to fail. _

"_You should pay more attention to the people at the back, fat man," the doctor said shrilly, his voice becoming louder. "They can get hurt too, they can, I know I did –"_

"_Don't be afraid," Coach told him, holding out a hand. "We gonna help you through this. Just hand me the gun –"_

_The man shook his head vigorously, the barrel of the gun quivering worse in his hand than ever. _

"– _YOU'RE LYING!" He screamed, flecks of spit glimmering on his lips. "You're out to get me, you're all out to GET me!"_

_Coach did not dare break contact with his eyes. His pupils were dilated; the whites reddening as the virus begun its first infective stages. He didn't have long left; a fact that everyone knew. They saw him fall down with a yell as they ran for the garages, but he made it here behind them, so none of them had thought –_

"_Please, monsieur," Jones said softly. "Mon ami – he ain't gon' be 'ere much longer now. We need to get help for both y'alls –"_

_The doctor giggled shrilly, backing towards a jeep. They watched him get in; his gun still pointed at Coach. _

"_Open the fucking door," he screeched, nudging his pistol towards the mechanism. Coach eyed it; the pounding behind it loudening, like a drum beat. He swallowed hard, the doctor noting his hesitation by flicking his wrist more desperately. _

"_Listen good," he said to the man gently. "We open that door now, before we all ready and prepared, them zombies gon' beat us down. The bile's wearin' off and sounds like that oil tanker outside ain't been moved yet."_

_He snorted, lowering his gun. Coach breathed a big sigh of relief and was just about to take another step when the man fired it; four times in rapid succession. Rochelle shrieked, holding her hand over her mouth as the sound of air decompression came forth; the tyres of the other jeeps deflating into flats. _

"_Now you can't follow me," he whispered, pointing it at Coach. "You can't get me. Now open the fucking door."_

_Coach obeyed, walking towards the mechanism silently. He pressed the button; the garage door slowly rising; a half dozen feet pacing outside. Bennett fired at them with his Magnum and was about to turn it at the doctor, when he pulled the trigger and it produced nothing but a click. _

_(No ammo left no ammo)_

"_Have fun fighting them," the doctor replied dreamily, tyres squealing as the jeep pulled out; downwards towards the hill. They watched it, like a black and white film with irrelevant music as the soundtrack. _

_The infected chased him on the first slide, as they had all known they would. Everything looked as if it were on fire; gas leaks ablaze from burst pipes._

_On the second, the tanker stopped moving out of the way. Coach used his rifle sight to look at the driver's seat; realising in horror that –_

_(Nobody's in there oh God what's happened to)_

– _the two men must be have not made it. _

_On the third, the doctor began slamming his hand against the horn. Coach watched his mouth move as his lips screamed something desperate that he couldn't understand but knew. An arm climbed around his throat; the jeep swerving as they climbed over it – engulfing him in their numbers. _

_He lowered the sight and closed his eyes. Rochelle was clinging to Nick's arm so tightly that it was beginning to hurt him. He swore furiously, shaking her off without thinking; proceeding to knock off a can of turps from the nearby worktable with his frying pan. A middle-aged woman in a smart suit rushed towards them, screaming as Rochelle's machete flew. She fell; her head beside her body. The cut on her hand had finally stopped bleeding; the handle as comfortable in her hand as it had always been. _

"_What are we going to do now?" She asked generally, glancing at everyone for answers. The infected outside were beginning to gain an interest in them; beginning to pause from their mauling and instead look over at the garage with their stupid yellow eyes._

_Nobody said a word, because they all knew what the answer was. They were all thinking the same thing, or along the lines of the same thing. _

_(This is it)_

_(Lord forgive us for our sins)_

_(Wonder if my ex wife'll meet me down there)_

"_We have to at least try running," Bennett said softly, empty guns at his hips. "I'd rather try running for the gate than dying here as they pile up on us."_

_They all nodded. Jones retrieved the remaining jar of bile from his pocket with some struggle, handing it to Coach, who stood nearest to him. He had held the remainder of the explosives – and Coach now had a third of his stock._

_Rochelle bit her lip nervously, looking over at Nick. He approached her; holding her face in one hand. She closed her eyes to it; the outside chaos and the flames quieting just a little as he did. _

"_In case we die," Nick muttered to her, "I'd regret it if I didn't do this just once."_

"_What do you –" she started, but her words were cut off. It took a brief moment for her to register what had happened; his mouth on hers firmly, muting her words. He was gentle; the unexpectedness of it shocking her. The act, however, was far from displeasing. She was surprised how much she reacted to it and as he pulled away from her; his lips slightly shiny from the lipgloss she always insisted on wearing, instead of slapping him; she smiled. _

"_Thanks Nick," she said, searching for words. "That was... nice."_

_He shrugged, as Coach looked at them with an eyebrow raised. _

"_No problem."_

_He turned to Bennett, feeling satisfied in a funny way as he held his frying pan up toward he shoulder, as if preparing to swing. Bennett exhaled, picking up a length of pipe that lay on the floor. Two nearby infected heard the clatter and began rushing toward them; gaining distance rapidly. _

"_On three," said Bennett, pipe in hand and stance firm; a wince however, behind his mask. "One... two..."_

_As they rocked forward on the pads of their feet, preparing for a bloody rush to their deaths, the two infected fell in a burst of gunfire. Spotlights traced the encampment; bright ovals in the dim, a thundering sound overhead. The infected paused; looking up at it vacantly with dumbfounded expressions._

_(That sounds like) _

"_DOWN HERE!" _

_Nick had run out, jumping and waving his hands frantically. The chopper they had waited so desperately for hovered overhead; voices above them calling out to him. _

"_Make your way to the chopper pad," a soldier yelled over a megaphone. "We'll hold them off! Go! Go now!"_

_They clambered over the bodies in front of the door as they moved as quickly as they could; keeping Applegate and Jones in the middle as the young man carried on the fight for his friend. He stumbled over; Bennett approaching him and taking Applegate's other arm. He kept moving forward amidst the dead weight; preventing Jean from arguing with him._

_ Coach beat several of them back and threw the bile towards the truck; where it splattered in a gunky mist. The ones that had not been shot down gave up their chase; grouping together in a swarm as they fought over the bile hormones that had been fresh-released. He swallowed; realising how lucky they'd been so far not to encounter the 'producers' of that bile. In the next few hundred yards; he hoped to keep it that way and said the last prayer of the night under his breath as they fought tooth and nail to just keep up the pace; sodden grass sliding under their feet._

_They heard calls behind them, but didn't look. As they rushed to the chopper landed in front of them mere metres away, a shot whistled past Nick's ear, metal pinging loudly. He looked frantically up at the chopper; to swear at them for not being careful, when another came from behind him; a fleshy thud following Coach letting out a yell of pain._

_(Oh God he) _

"_Don't leave me!"_

_He turned round; only to see the doctor limping behind him; a runner of blood at his temple and snot at his nose. His skin had turned clammy and he was breathing heavily; his eyes beginning to tint yellow. _

_Nick couldn't believe he was still standing._

"_Don't fucking leave me," he repeated; his breaths becoming more rapid as he hyperventilated. The others had reached the chopper and were looking over at the scene; Coach nursing a leg in the corner of his eye. Nick turned away from him in disgust, beginning to pick up speed in his run. _

"_NO!" The man shrieked desperately. "You can't leave me here, you can't!"_

_He fired another couple of rounds. This time, from the innards of the chopper, he heard a scream of pain. A familiar, female scream. _

_(Ro)_

_Fury rose within him; the benign man becoming all the more selfish and pathetic to him.  
><em>

"_You son of a bitch," Nick breathed. "You deserve to die here, you cowardly piece of shit –"_

_Something interrupted their conversation.  
><em>

_Nick still wasn't sure if there was a God, but if there was, he was pretty certain He'd acted right at that moment. A torrent of grunts and slurs came as he backed towards the transport. He watched the man's eyes grow wide as the thing charged toward him in a huge sound; his gun falling to the ground. _

_(Help me)_

"_HELP ME!"_

_It hit him with the force of a ton of bricks; taking him off the cliff. Nick could not see, but he felt it as they fell together in an awkward parabola; stones breaking their fall as they died, forever in an ugly embrace. _

_He exhaled the air that he'd held for what felt an eternity in his lungs. _

"_The pilot!" He heard someone cry._

_Nick rushed to the cockpit where he saw a panicked Bennett, shaking the bodies of their two rescuers. A chill washed over him at the scene. The doctor may have only been a doctor, but he had certainly been nothing less than a lucky shot. They were both dead; one from a bullet hole in the head, the other in the heart. They slumped over each other like ragdolls; useless to them._

_Nick clenched his fists. _

"_The bile won't last much longer," he said, ignoring the deaths and feeling guilt from it. "Can you fly this thing?"_

"_You haven't got much choice," Rochelle added with a cough, holding her arm. "They're coming right now."_

_She was right. A few hundred metres in the distance; there was a stampede coming that would have to be dealt with. The pressure from her fingers caused a bubble of blood to form between them; breaking in a sticky pop. Bennett passed him an Uzi; one of the two loaded guns the soldiers had been carrying. He reached out for it when his hand was swotted away; Cajun fingers on the trigger in place of his own. _

"_I buy y'alls more time," Jean Jones muttered, pulling off his mask. He smiled; determination across his freckled face. "Wish y'alls the best."_

"_You're not thinking of –" Nick started, Jones turning away from him to face the horde. _

"_Dis t'only way. Get mon ami outta here, sir. Do the best ya can."_

_Nick nodded, admiration for the man filling him. _

"_Thank you."_

_Jones didn't answer. He began to run; using his gun to fire into the air – a mechanism for distraction rather than defence. The infected changed their course; beginning to curve their path towards the flashbangs. Nick got in the chopper; giving himself a short moment of quiet. The young man coughed next to him; as if feeling the disturbance. Coach looked at Nick quizzically – veins protruding as he fought through the pain in his leg. At Nick's expression, he bowed his head. _

_Bennett fought with the dials for about thirty seconds frantically. He'd been learning to become a pilot as his military trade, being tired of his job as an infantryman. He wished he'd listened more. Thoughts about Jones were fighting their way in; getting louder as the flashbangs ceased. He kept whispering his objectives under his breath to urge him._

_(Save Applegate)_

_(Ben)_

_The blades began to twirl; a spindle of dust forming around them as the copter lifted from the ground; up into the air._

_(Yes) _

_A bright spark flashed in his eyes that turned blinding as they were blown over the Gulf, the oil tanker blowing apart behind them._

* * *

><p>By the time Nick woke, it was early afternoon. He groaned loudly, his head pulsing with the feel of the Nasties.<p>

(Where am)

As he began his confused stagger back towards the house, backpack rustling with its assortment of drugs, he found himself wondering stupidly why he had gone out in the first place. It became clearer when he got back, with a couple of things he had not expected.

One was the lost-and-found Bennett, wide-eyed but sane, talking frantically about smoke.

The other thing, which he never thought he'd hear again, was the sound of a thick, Georgian accent over a walkie-talkie.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**To the anonymous reviewer who posted recently,**

**First off, I would just like to thank you for taking the time to read my work and that I am glad to be in receipt of your opinions towards it. I deleted three of your comments; simply because I didn't think I needed four reviews – the majority, with all due respect, containing fairly dire criticism – so I kept the one which I believe summarised best what you wished me to improve. It surprised me actually that you bothered reading to the end in the first place; since you seemed to have so many problems with it, so I'm quite flattered that I (almost) scratch the surface of your standards. The reason why I have written this is not only for you; but to also explain my motives to the others who read this, so they can perhaps get a better idea about it.**

**1. I can honestly say I write naturally, with what occurs to me/sounds best. I don't mean to sound as if I am trying to overcomplicate my writing, because it's simply just my style. To me, it flows as I intended. I reserve short paragraphs for when I deem appropriate, for example, during some of the more shocking/action-packed moments in the story so far e.g. the use of parentheses and italics to represent spontaneous thoughts. Long paragraphs and lexically 'complex' prose are just simply how I 'roll'. It's also why I use expletives fairly often, as to me it's more realistic, especially when it comes to Nick. Sean Lock (excellent comedian, by the way) does a brilliant sketch on the 'need' for swearing. I try and keep it to what I think fits well.**

**2. I try my best to keep in character for them all, but I also like to incorporate a depth in their characters as well, so form my own interpretations. I realise Ellis, for example, may sound somewhat different at times than he appears in the game, but it's how I see him. I see him as a person who uses humour in place of his feelings, as most men I find tend to do, but in having encountered so much death and destruction that he has done (non-stop without a break), he begins to get wrapped up in his thoughts when he's finally away from it all, for a while. If you would like to discuss how I might better characterise (or anything else relevant), please feel free to drop me a message, as, like I said, I take on board useful criticism.**

**3. It's either 'Alfa' (as in 'Alfa Romeo', the car make) or 'Alpha', actually – wiki it. My brother is also in the Army (in the UK, where I'm from) and 'Alfa' is the more common spelling in his experience. I did not mean to insult the United States Military in any way, or to even make them seem wholly realistic. Rather, I try and go with the 'canonical' version of them from 'The Sacrifice' comic, where the NATO alphabet is used extensively in codenames, i.e. 'Tango Mike' and 'Whiskey Delta' – to try and maintain the feeling of it being an extension of the Left 4 Dead storyline – not at all to overstep my bounds and seem ignorant. In fairness, they have not been particularly useful to the characters in the past – having imprisoned the original cast and threatened them with death, for example – so I try to be as reasonable as I can. It isn't as if they can't handle themselves (as I have tried to demonstrate later on in the story), but being faced with an unexpected three hundred or so zombies all at once with very little warning wouldn't exactly be easy for thirty of even the most experienced servicemen.**

**(To everyone else)*Breathes* Apologies to everyone who's gotten to the end of this block of bold text and had no idea what I'm on about – and also for the wait on this chapter (I've had exams).**


	18. Chapter 18

"Ellis! You crazy kid! Shit – we thought – well, I dunno what we thought –"

"Good to hear from you too, big guy."

"Where are you?"

"In Savannah. I'm home."

(...)

"Seriously?"

"Yep. Can see my backyard from here and everythin'."

(...)

"Why there now, boy? Ain't nothin' wrong or anythin', I just thought you left to go lookin' for –"

"She's here with me, Coach."

(...)

"You're pullin' my leg."

"I wouldn't do that to ya, buddy. I found her. She's not in the greatest shape, so we gonna lay low here for a while til' she feels ready to head on out back onto the field, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"Where did you find her?"

"Back near that bridge we met her on."

"Were the other two –"

"No. Poor girl got left for dead."

(...)

"You never really can guess what people are really thinkin', can you? I thought she meant more to them than that, coward bastards –"

"She says it was an accident."

(...)

"Ro, stop nudgin' me –"

(...)

"How's your shape then, sweetie?"

"Pretty buff, if I do say. Nah, I kid. Got a couple of wounds – one's a doozie from a Spitter. Decided to give me a hole in my arm big enough to store things in."

(...)

"Shit, boy. What I tell you about bein' careful?"

"Sorry Rochelle."

"Damn right. We honestly thought we lost you out there, honey. Don't make me worry like that again, or zombies aren't the only thing that'll be out to get you – you dig?"

"Like a grave, if ya'll excuse my purty wordplay."

(...)

"I miss y'all. Surprised you had the time to take this call, with the Army round y'all without so much as a minute spare."

(...)

"Hang on, Nick's back. Hold on Bennett, tell us everything in a minute. Here –"

(...)

"We aren't at the encampment any more, Ellis."

(...)

"What happened?"

(...)

"Nick, I can't hear ya over the static. Say again."

"I said we had to leave. When you left, place was overrun."

(...)

"You're shittin' me."

"I wish I was."

(...)

"Goddamn it."

"Don't worry, we're honestly alright for now. We're on an island in the Gulf, actually. Give the three nutjobs on the bridge their due, they had a pretty damned fine idea –"

"Who made it?"

(...)

"The three of us, a Corporal and a Lieutenant. Kid's a carrier, like us, but he's in a bad way. He's not been conscious for twelve hours."

(...)

"Jesus."

(...)

"Listen, buddy. You should head out here as soon as you can. Keep the talkie on you. Soon as we fix up, we can chopper back to the mainland and get you. There's no zombies out here, so far. Only sign of life we've encountered is some smoke in the distance – and that's never a positive sign."

(...)

"I'll tell Zoey when she's up."

(...)

"Whatever. We're gonna check out the smoke – it's a key or two away. Might be something, might not be. We'll call you back tomorrow."

"Bye sweetie. Take care – don't do anything I wouldn't do."

(...)

"Stay safe, boy. Watch out for her; else this gentleman's gon' put his foot so far up your ass you'll taste it in your throat."

"I will. See y'all."

_Thunk._

The talkie fell by Ellis's side; the fuzz ceasing as the battery became dislodged.

He couldn't breathe again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I realise this chapter's super short. I just thought it'd be better to dedicate the conversation to being the whole chapter; so I hope you guys don't mind too much. Next one'll be normal :)**


	19. Chapter 19

For several hours, Zoey drifted in and out of sleep. For a change; she didn't dream about anything, her thoughts peaceful and content. Lying there, her wounds now doing little more than throbbing gently, she felt she could drift forever; like a Mark Twain character on a home-made raft down the lazy Mississippi river. She hadn't been able to do that for a long time; being always on edge – the fear of attack always being present as her ears hunted for noises preventing her forever from obliged natural sleep. Sleep would claim her instead of her simply drifting into it and as it took her; dragging her into its woozy, unknowing caress, she would fight it as it did. She had always been terrified of waking up alone after she had been found by Bill in her father's crashed sedan; shaking and sweating all over with a pistol in her hand, still stained with her father's blood. He had taken her hand and led her to Louis, holding out in an apartment building while listening to the authorities on the radio for a few hours until they had been silenced. They had found Francis a few days later; hopping from bar to supermarket as they tried their best to stay off the streets as long as supplies and shelter could hold. Those times had been uncertain, naive and terrifying – but yet still not close to being as bad as the two weeks she had spent alone.

She would never forget them; like she would never forget Bill. Like she would never forget her father, her mother, or her friends. They had visited her in that place and although she had thought long and hard about those memories and, on occasion, either becoming totally catatonic for hours or crying herself to oblivion, they had been there to guide her. She did not know, or never would; but when her sanity had wavered to its thinnest, she had spoken to them, staring into the barrel of her rifle while whispering to it, a quiet conversation with no real meaning.

Being with someone again was huge in contrast. There had been points where she thought she'd never speak to another person again; let alone Ellis. Being with someone again had brought her this plane of peace; something she had craved for a long time. Its colour was lilac; its sound birdsong – its scent the porridge he had given her.

When she finally awoke enough to move; it was night-time. Zoey flicked on the small lamp resting on the bedside table; a warm glow filling the room. Ellis had left her some slippers by her bed which she had not noticed upon waking earlier. They were mauve and fluffy looking, a little large for her. She kicked them off, disappointed. Her friend Jess had teased her about her 'elf-feet', being a size four and a half. It was embarrassing that she had to still buy _kids _shoes at times.

Zoey missed her Batman trainers.

She took a step into the hall. Her balance was better than it had been before (having made it upstairs and back to the room by herself with reasonable ease) but as she did not entirely trust herself, she reached out to the right wall to use as a guide.

About halfway, they grazed something hard and out of place. It fell to the floor with a clatter; making her jump. Her fingers found the light switch, which she flicked; the thing resting on the tip of her slipper.

It was a key. Zoey picked it up, eyeing it enquiringly. She looked around for the hook from which it had fallen; its feel heavy despite its cheap, bronze finish, but her eyes instead fell on the latch of the door next to her. She reached out, absently turning the knob. It turned about a quarter of the way and stopped with a slight groan.

(_Why would he lock this one_)

She didn't know what made her want to go inside. It was none of her business, after all. It could have been personal to Ellis, for all she knew; whose house it was and of where she was a guest. She'd been told off for doing that by her mother at one of her friend's houses; calling Zoey 'rude', even though she'd paid her no attention and left her with her friend's spoilt little brat of a son who wouldn't let her near any of his toys. Zoey couldn't help herself. She had always been curious about things. It went with her 'climbing trees instead of playing with dolls' tomboyish attitude.

(_I'm sure he won't mind_)

She stuck it in the keyhole, where it turned easily; the lock clicking open.

Inside the room; it was dark. Zoey clicked the light switch on the wall, but no light came. She searched around instead for a desk lamp. The room smelled slightly damp; vacant. She could hear the curtains rustling somewhere behind her –

(_A breeze?_)

– and realised something uneasily.

(_It's broken_)

She approached them, pulling them aside.

Ellis had not boarded up this window. She stared out into the dark garden; shards of glass crunching lightly under her feet. A low mist hung over the lawn; visible as smog in the full moonlight. The night was crisp, but uncomfortably cold and she wrapped her arms around herself; despite the thick dressing gown that belonged to the woman whose room she had invaded. The break was huge and jagged; taking up the majority of the pane.

If Ellis hadn't boarded up the window, then he hadn't been in here. She backed away from the window, the threat it posed and the reason it was the way it was now very clear. Her heel caught on the bedpost painfully and she seethed a little through her teeth.

The pain made her feel afraid. Her body tensed; her hand closing around a piece of paper resting on the dresser.

If the window had been open, then something could be in here with her.

Although she tried to rationalise that if something was there, she would certainly be able to smell it; the thoughts kept coming anyway. She began to drift a little, staring at an object in the dark which she thought was a wardrobe but couldn't be sure.

(_Scratching I can hear scratching_)

Something was in there. It had to be. Her fingers gripped the dresser tightly as the door swung open an inch, then two, then –

A hand grasped her shoulder.

She shrieked. She tried to pull away but the thing held her firmly, keeping her in its grasp as she fought against it.

"Get _off_ me! Get off –"

"Zoey! Calm down –"

The lights came on; Ellis's confused and angry face coming into view. He let her go; causing her to stumble. There had been no monsters, or infected – but the expression on his face made her feel more scared than she would have been if there were.

(_I'm sorry I didn't mean_)

"Why did you come in here?" He asked her softly.

She didn't answer.

Ellis shook his head, glaring at her. He stooped over, picking broken glass off the floor. Several pieces had lodged in Zoey's feet without her noticing. They stung now; a trail of awkward bloody footprints leading back from the window to where she was slouched.

She felt terrible.

Ellis noticed the footprints and looked over at her. She recoiled as if struck; feeling stupid and babyish, which he ignored. She felt like how it had been in elementary school; where she was so shy and sensitive that she would cry if she did wrong by the teachers and was yelled at. This time was no exception and her vision glossed pathetically.

"You're feet're bleedin', Zoey," he muttered. "Oughtta be careful where you're treadin' in places you don't know."

Zoey nodded and began to pick bits of glass out of them. It hurt; the pieces hard to see properly due to her stooped head.

She didn't want to look at him.

She heard him sigh as he approached her; stooping down. She paused her pickings as he took one of her feet, examining the sole. She tried to pull away, ashamed to ask for any more than the help he'd already given her when he let go.

"Hang on."

He left the room for a second. Zoey thought it was because he needed time to cool down because of how she'd pissed him off, but he came back shortly with a roll of bandages, some rubbing alcohol and some cotton. He tossed them on the bed next to her and sat behind her, facing the window while kneading his fingers together. Zoey got to work on her feet as Ellis started talking.

"Figured you were big enough to sort 'em yourself. You did a better job at bandaging yourself than I did – when you must've been bleedin' half to death, an' all."

A tart smell filled her nostrils as she rubbed the TCP on the cuts.

"I had to," she murmured, not knowing what else to say.

Ellis ran his hands through his hair. She admired him for being so calm; even though she felt he had every right to simply scream at her. But she knew he wouldn't, which was what again, made it worse. She'd only been with him for a brief amount of time and, already, she'd done something to hurt him. The embarrassment and humility was huge to her and she wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor.

She could tell what he was thinking about what she'd said without even looking at him.

(_But you didn't HAVE to come in here did you_)

"I spoke to the others," he said suddenly.

"Are they alright?"

Ellis snorted.

"Depends on what you mean by 'alright'. They're alive, is the main thing."

Zoey began to bandage her feet. If times had been better, she'd have remarked how much she was beginning to look like a mummy.

She didn't feel in the mood for making any jokes.

After she'd finished, she stood up. His shoulders were crouched; his nose almost touching his knees. She reached out to touch his back, when he cut her off.

"Would you leave me alone for a minute please?"

Zoey paused. Selfishly, she didn't want to. She wanted to apologise, to give him a hug – anything at all to make _her_ feel better. But she didn't.

She'd earned her guilt and it was up to her to go through with it.

"Sure."

On her way out, Ellis spoke to her again.

"I made somethin' for you to eat. It's in the kitchen. Be down in a minute, I j-just..."

He cleared his throat; his voice wobbling.

"N-need some time to think, for just a lil' while. Then I'll be alright, I..."

Zoey rubbed her eyes miserably; the sleeve of her robe as damp as the smell.

"I'm so sorry."

She closed the door behind her, picking up the pace as she went to the kitchen despite the pain of her feet; not knowing really why she was running. She collapsed in the kitchen chair, her hands over her face. Her favourite sat in front of her; a pile of maple syrup coated pancakes. They were the guilt food her parents always gave her after they'd had an argument in the foolish years they'd lived together, for her sake, before their divorce.

She cried.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, so this one's a _little_ short too. It kind of made sense to stop it here, because again I think it'll make things flow better. I'll try and get the next one out as soon as I can :)**

**By the way, I'm considering also asking for someone to Beta read for me, as I seriously need all the help I can get :'] so if anyone would like to, please drop me a message. You will be loved lots XD**


	20. Chapter 20

So she'd messed up.

Nobody was perfect, after all. He himself was a prime example of that.

He just didn't get what was _bothering _him so much. He'd spent hours up here, partially dozing off, partially thinking – sometimes crying silently, or other times taut and irate. He wanted to just pick a state of mind and be done with it. The location wasn't exactly helping with his head, but he couldn't make himself leave, either. It was like some form of drug to him. One minute, he'd be somehow furious, mad at himself, Zoey, both or neither; the next, he'd catch a gentle hint of his mother's perfume from her bedsheets and it sent him off, teetering on the edge of going back to how he'd been earlier about Polly.

What could he say to Zoey, though? It wasn't his fault that he was upset with what had happened; though he felt he ought to be thankful for it as well. He had been very bitter about it when he'd first gotten up, hearing her crying downstairs but neither willing nor able to cope with helping her out. She'd fallen quiet now, but he regretted that decision. He regretted feeling that way because he wasn't the kind of guy who ever normally did anything like that, or thought that way; even if only a little.

Though, another reason he felt how he did was the piss-poor way he'd treated her. If he'd seen her crying, he'd have had no clue in the slightest how to deal with it, because _he_ had caused it. He knew it was fine to be angry sometimes – but was it fair to be angry with someone if they'd not been told beforehand not to do something that might cause that anger? If he'd told her about it, then reacting how he did would have been more reasonable. But flying off the handle, when she'd been nothing but curious, even maybe just trying to help, based on the lie he'd told her...

He felt just a bit of a dick.

Hell, she'd even helped him, in her own way, face his biggest fear since he'd gotten home. He genuinely had made _excuses_ for not going in; thinking it would have screwed him up if he were so much to take a peek inside. Okay, he _was_ pretty messed up, as was fair; but, at the same time, it wasn't nearly as bad as he thought it might be. The room wasn't a black hole, or something that drew you in and never let you out. It was just a room and only that, albeit with connotations that were sad. He thought he ought to feel ashamed for how incredibly weak-minded he had been over it; being a whiny little bitch and not manning up – a personality trait he was showing more and more lately.

He wished he could brush things off just like he used to.

The broken window was driving him nuts. It was all he'd stared at, when he wasn't asleep. It was nagging him; curtains reaching towards him – groping, fan-like hands. He felt insane that he could even drift asleep at all. He wouldn't have done, if he wasn't so inhumanely exhausted. He hadn't slept for the best part of three days and his head had felt like concrete when it fell onto the pillow.

If he didn't fix it up, anything would be able to get in.

So why wasn't he _doing_ anything about it? Why couldn't he just make himself _move_?

(_I'm a murderer yes I am it's all my fault I_)

_Stop it._

He couldn't help it though. What Nick had told him had rocked the foundations of his already flaking world. He kept flicking betwixt the negatives, unable to feel like he had any other options but to and it had done wonders in draining his motivation.

He'd a feeling that something might have happened to them when he left, because it was always the way.

(_If I'd have just stayed they'd have been fine_)

And all of the soldiers wouldn't have been killed.

That was the thing that was really getting to him. It had actually stunned him, to hear about that. He'd honestly believed that they had better control than they did. Perhaps unaware of the situation the encampment might have been in, yes; but with a means of getting out, a backup plan, just something – if the place ran into any sort of trouble. He wanted to scream at them for being so stupid as to not band together more tightly.

If a zombie apocalypse wasn't an appropriate occasion for a better moral Zeitgeist (God, how he loved that word and how intelligent it made him feel) then when would be?

He tensed slightly as he fought to push his procrastination instincts aside.

_Better get to work on fixing that window. Else you'll be here all night._

Pulling his tired body off the rose polyester comforter, he retrieved the toolbox he'd left in his room; along with a few planks of wood to replace the previous boards; now splintered and useless across the garden. Even if it was for safety's sake; he felt sad as he did it. It was like he was closing over the only open eye left in the house; blinding it forever. The pieces of glass he'd picked up lay jagged on the bed behind him; the large heap getting bigger as he threw on other bits with a callous backhand. Zoey had been unfortunate and he didn't want to have the same case of shredded feet.

As the hammered in the first nail, he heard a noise. The sound of the front door being fiddled with and then opening followed; light spilling in a yellow trapeze across the front garden.

(_What the_)

The window would have to wait. He rushed down to greet the distraction; falling down the bottom two steps and grazing his knee through his jeans. He had changed earlier after taking a long shower. They'd been his favourite pair – ones he'd bought with his very first paycheck – and they'd remained unspoiled (believe it or not) until then. The hall carpet had done a number on it; the knee now almost threadbare and red. He ignored it; the sting getting worse when he stood up and the skin around his kneecap crinkled.

(_Just another injury to add to the list_)

He found her standing outside. She was breathing hard; her shoulders heaving up and down as she stared into the garden, away from him. She turned around slowly as he ran towards her; dew from the grass seeping through his toes and soaking his socks. Her expression crumbled from fear into relief.

"Zoey, what's –"

She ran towards him and tackled him into a hopeless hug; which made him recoil in surprise.

"I was sitting in the study when I heard a bang," she whispered. "I thought that it was the door, a window or something – "

Ellis, realising that it wasn't the best time but still hopelessly red-faced, held her back. She was trembling.

"W-who –" He started, swallowing and correcting himself, "I mean... what did you –"

"I thought you'd gone."

All of Ellis's contempt for her, had there been any, melted away. He stroked her hair with one hand, gently and laughed.

"Hey, come on now. I can be a pain in the ass, but I at least like to think I'm a decent guy."

She seemed to find comfort in that and nodded; nose brushing his chest.

"I'm so sorry Ellis," she said. "I know I said it before, but I really am. I didn't know, I honestly just didn't think –"

"I know you didn't know," he replied. "I shouldn'ta acted like I did. Shoudda known better than to make you feel like that when you've enough on your plate as it is. It was Mama's room, is all. Guess you probably figured that 'un pretty easy. If anything, you helped me out by goin' in there. Was bein' irresponsible leavin' the window in its sorry-ass state."

She punched him on the arm, with a giggle. He let go, rubbing it furiously.

"Ow!"

"That's for being nice and not getting mad," she replied, smiling. He tried to glare at her, but he couldn't help himself in grinning back.

"I was a bit mad," he admitted. "Just a lot at myself, mostly. Felt pretty weak, lately. Things keep gettin' to me. Useta have skin like a freakin' rhino – though that was mostly, as Mama told me, cos I just don't understand insults too good."

"Your grammar ain't no good neither."

"Why thank you," he replied, teasing her. "Glad to see that Miss High 'n Mighty here has standards."

She punched him on the arm again in the same spot. His muscle had gotten tender and it hurt more than his male ego cared to admit a second time, so he ignored it, shrugging with a victory smirk.

"If that right hook 'o yours and my grammar met, they could have a battle of the wits."

"You cheeky bastard!"

Ellis laughed as she dove at him. They struggled on the grass as she tickled him mercilessly; fingers jabbing in the worst place; under his arms.

"Stop it," he wheezed, chest aching. "You're killin' me –"

"Say uncle!"

"Unc –"

A loud screech cut their actions short. They stood up, side by side.

Something was coming. In the dim, though they weren't sure, they thought they could make out its outline.

It was hunched and prowling.

Ellis lowered himself down to the ground, picking up one of the short spades that his mother used for gardening. The edge was dull and caked in dirt. Zoey went to do the same, but he held out a hand in front of her.

"Get inside," he whispered. "Get inside, lock the door and hide. Don't open the front door, whatever you do."

"I can't just –"

"Yes you can. Just do it. You're hurt right now. Last thing you need is to be any worse."

She backed away slowly towards the house, closing the door over gently. She didn't hide, though. She left to find something as Ellis clicked on the small torch hanging at his belt; the one on his keys that he kept for the purpose of, simply, just in case.

He shone his flashlight onto the spot where he'd seen it; readying his spade.

Nothing. Not a single thing. The grass stalks waved at him mockingly in the light wind. He wondered if they were both starting to go mad, but even though the thought of it being an illusion came to him, his heart still leapt up in his chest.

He had to be sure.

"Come on out!" He yelled. He banged the spade several times against the lead piping scaling the back wall of the house.

Still nothing.

He exhaled gently. That would be it, then. He would approach the bottom of the garden and then head back.

(_It had to be the wind, it just had to_)

He had taken no more than four steps when he heard the growling; as if the thing had been waiting for just the right moment to take him off guard.

Ellis got low in a defensive stance, holding the spade tightly.

"I know you're here," he muttered. "Come and get me, you lil' shithead. Come on."

With a scream behind him; it sprung with massive strength as Ellis swung with the spade. It caught it dead in the face. It flew backward in the opposite direction to the spade-head; broken off with the force of the swing. Its body collided with the side of the house and it fell to the floor, still breathing.

_How could it possibly be breathing from a hit that hard?_

He would have to end it. Double tap. Fiction was fiction, but it was one lesson learned from cinema that Ellis had taken with him every step of the way. He searched for things on the ground, not taking his eyes off the body. His hand grazed a brick lying close by; loose from building work they had been doing on the house. His mother had wanted to build an extension on the back, which they'd finished but never fully gotten around to clearing up. It felt course and heavy in his palm. A contradiction scuttled across the back of his hand; something feathery and fast. It made Ellis cringe for a moment, as he convinced himself he wasn't scared of spiders.

He had much more of a reason, after all, to be afraid of the (currently) thankfully dormant thing in front of him, while armed with nothing to defend himself but a brick.

Ellis crouched over the body; brick readied. He was just about to swing, when he heard something else.

A second bout of growling, above him.

(_Jesus_)

He looked up; eyes wide as it pounced.

The fall was hard. He felt the air leave him in a sudden burst as it collided with his chest; mouth wide as its screeches ran through him. Its smell was terrible; the majority coming from its open mouth, agape with its screams. It was a familiar smell to him, a smell that came to Zoey before she was injured; a smell that must have come to many, right before it tore them to pieces.

Ellis held the brick against its chest, muscles groaning with the agony of keeping it at bay as it squabbled against him. The torch lay on the floor; strewn by the body of the other, which was already beginning to twitch. Ellis couldn't see this one's face, but it had the face of his neighbour, Jonesy. He and his mother used to argue about religious denominations and plant-care when she invited him over for block barbecues in summer; wonderfully secluded at their house, which marked the end of the row. Jonesy had once joked about killing Ellis for getting mud all over his white picket fence on a particularly muddy day while driving.

If only he knew how close he was coming to fulfilling that threat.

One of its claws grazed his cheek, making him cry out. Warm blood ran down his neck as Ellis's muscles began to give way, the other creature getting back up on all fours –

He closed his eyes, waiting for it.

Two bangs came instead. The creature on top of him fell; knocking the wind out of him again and making him feel as if he was going to throw up.

He opened his eyes.

Zoey stood over him, brandishing a spotlight pistol. She swirled it round cowboy-style as Ellis struggled to get out under the body, grasping his torch. He sighed in relief as he got up, feeling himself over. For the most part, he seemed unharmed. Zoey looked at him with coy smugness as she pretended to blow off the smoke from the barrel.

"Thought I told you," he said, coughing, "to stay inside."

"Would you rather be used as an demonstration model used to show budding huntsmen how to gut deer?" She quizzed him sarcastically, an eyebrow raised.

"True." He said, smiling at her. "Thank you."

She nodded, looking at his cheek sympathetically, which he covered with his hand. She clicked the safety on the gun and pocketed it, taking his hand so they could guide each other back.

"We'd better get back inside and lay low tonight. There's no telling how many might come if they think there's people here."

"Yeah, I know."

As they headed back to the house, Ellis still in a state of amazed awe, something puzzling occurred to him.

"Hang on a second now... I put a table in front of the door –"

Zoey stopped for a second, before turning back to face him, a disquiet look in her eyes.

"It was on its side," she whispered.

Which could only mean that, as Ellis slept –

"Something could have gotten in."

* * *

><p>Ellis shone his spotlight down into the cellar; having taken point. The splintery wooden steps groaned under his feet; sagged slightly from damp and mildew. He hoped that they wouldn't collapse. His toes felt grimy as the dust mixed with the dew collected on his socks from the grass.<p>

"Can you see anything?"

Ellis paused for a second; squinting. He'd hated coming down here ever since he was young. Ellis didn't have much belief in phobias, but he could see why someone would have one of this place. It used to make his flesh crawl as a ten year old when his mother sent him down here for the vacuum cleaner or the occasional exotic chemical solution she swore by in getting out any Keith-caused stains from his clothes. The lock on the door was also broken, so the place followed him into his dreams; as he imagined the door swinging aside to reveal some freaky ass thing that would follow him upstairs to his room; crazed in its hunger for boymeat.

The door had been open, swinging gently when they found it. It was funny really that the feelings from that memory were the very first thing Ellis experienced when he saw it. He had shone a light down when he arrived (the car torch he kept for emergencies) and flashed it on and off rather than going down; thinking that he would have certainly gotten a response.

_(Do zombies _sleep_ now)_

"It's too dark," he called back. "I'm gonna have to go down a bit more."

"Be careful," Zoey said, wryly to keep up his humour. "I think you've had your day's worth of trauma."

Her pistol knocked against the doorframe, making him jump. The stairwell was narrow and low; cobwebs from the overhead beams collecting in his hair. He brushed them off with his free hand, wishing he didn't have to go any further.

He took a few more steps – and stopped dead.

(_Rustling I hear rustling_)

"Ellis, what's –"

"Shh!"

A shadow darted in front of him and buried itself in a pile of old newspapers. He cocked the gun he had been carrying; aiming it at the pile, which was now still.

He whistled loudly, his finger squeezing the trigger. He was about to pull it when the pile attacked him, leaping forward with an enthusiastic bark.

He heard Zoey scream from above as the thing sat on his chest. Instead of bites, however, his face was adorned with generous slatherings of drool from a huge tongue.

_Max_.

He couldn't believe it.

His childhood friend, his two hundred pound black Newfoundland; a wonderful, gentle giant he thought he'd never see again, was now doing the usual thing he was doing aside from fetch, as if nothing at all whatsoever had changed.

"Ellis!" Zoey screamed. "Oh God –"

Ellis laughed; the dog's tongue tickling his face.

"Maxie! Down now boy, down –"

The dog complied, looking up at him with his deep brown eyes. His tail wagged from side to side enthusiastically. He was filthy; his coat plated in mud and what looked like blood, but Ellis still got down and hugged the creature, scratching behind his ear. Max whined, enjoying the sensation. He hadn't seen Max since he took off into the night, sometime during the first couple of days of infection and had honestly never, ever thought he'd see him again.

"It's alright, Zoey!" Ellis called back, turning back to Max, who had shimmied away from Ellis to do his own scratching. He rolled his eyes.

"How'd you survive then, boy?" Ellis asked him curiously.

Ellis had no idea how Max had gotten back in, but how he'd survived was fairly obvious after minimal searching. The cellar had been the storage place of choice for Max's dog food. He hadn't been able to get into the canned stuff, but he sure as hell had gotten into the dry. Almost all of the packets (and there had been around fifteen four kilo bags, as his mother tended to buy in bulk) had been ripped to pieces; dog turds and pellets littering the floor. He figured Max must have been drinking out of what Dave had dubbed the 'scary toilet'; the basement one that nobody dared use except on a bet when drunk.

Taking him gently by the scruff, Ellis led Max upstairs. He sat up, looking at Zoey quizzically, his head cocked. For a dog, he was seriously huge; in that position, he was nearly up to the crook of her elbow. She looked a little nervous at first; which a lot of people were around Max because of how big he was. Ellis shook his head and let out a chuckle as Max wandered up to her; giving her a huge lick across her cheek. Zoey laughed with relief as she looked at him, tickling under his chin.

"Who's a big, gorgeous boy?"

Max wagged his tail, licking her hand as if it were made of chocolate; one of the things he adored, but which Ellis's mother firmly denied. Ellis knew he shouldn't give into Max, but with those eyes and dumb, lumbering personality, he couldn't help himself. Max had been the recipient of several secret Hershey bars in the past, one of which when Ellis was twelve (still two years before any growth spurts were to happen) as a reward for being his horse when he went as a cowboy that Halloween.

He couldn't help wishing _he_ was Max right now though, with all the attention he was getting. The one thing that dog loved more than chocolate was people – because with people came attention and Zoey was giving the soft-hearted canine plenty.

He wondered why Max wasn't infected. There was blood on his coat and around his muzzle, which meant Max had probably done a fair bit of biting to get back to the house.

Maybe it didn't affect dogs, or something.

Ellis wasn't really focussing on that, though. He was more overwhelmed with how happy he was to see the big feller to worry about it. He couldn't believe it was actually _him_.

"Alright, Maxie," he chuckled, clicking his fingers. The dog rolled over onto his front; thick fringe covering his eyes. Ellis tutted, thinking of the fight he was going to have to go through tomorrow to get him in the bath.

"He's practically a bear," Zoey said, amazed. Ellis nodded, scratching the top of the dog's head.

"Pretty much. Eats like one too. Must've sensed the Hunters outside, so went prowlin' – or in his clumsy case, crashin'. Surprised he didn't spring at our arrival – though in all honesty, big feller's lazy as a log."

Max shuffled his paws a little, as if insulted, so Ellis scratched him again as an apology.

"I always wanted a dog," said Zoey. "Mom wouldn't let me, but dad said he'd get a puppy when his parakeet finally coughed. Think he bought the old bird so he could pretend he was a pirate while out on his fishing boat. I never liked it and it never liked me – it always went hysterical when I was around and managed to bite me every time it was my turn to clean the miserable thing's cage out."

Ellis let out a burst of laughter, shaking his head and waving it away with his free hand.

"S-sorry. Shouldn't laugh at that – weren't nice of me. I dunno what your dad looks like, so I just imagined you with a beard, parakeet an' pirate hat. Was an interestin' image."

"I can imagine," Zoey replied dryly, but she was still smiling.

Ellis got up, his tone now more serious.

"Be down in a minute. Just gotta go fix up that window before it causes any serious trouble. If you aren't too tired, I could do with talkin' to you about a few things as well."

A little tentatively, Zoey nodded.

"Keep an eye on Max," Ellis started, hesitating when he realised the stupidity in that statement. "Actually... don't bother. He's found a comfortable spot, so he won't move without a 'carrot'. If you keep trippin' over him though, there's a stash o' Butterfingers in the pantry. Works every time."

* * *

><p>Zoey stared at Max, breath huffing gently from his muzzle. She scratched his ear gently, making him whinny a little; eyes firmly closed. He was happily asleep. Stains of mud marked the path of his journey across the carpet; <em>flump<em>, roll over, move a few centimetres, _flump_.

She had honestly been scared shitless when she heard Ellis cry out in that basement. Why hadn't he told her he had a dog? He was seriously _massive_, as well.

Zoey wanted to play with him some more, but Max was too tired to react any longer to her scratches and tickling. She decided she'd stop tormenting the poor thing and left him alone to sleep.

Making her way around Max, she flopped down on the sofa (away from the previous, sombre spot she'd taken in the study); dimming the lights a little as she went in. When Ellis came back, they'd have to shut them off entirely. It'd be too risky to keep them on while there could be lumbering infected outside, drawn to their lights. She'd done the same in the safehouse and it seemed to have worked pretty well, even if the nights alone with nothing but a streetlight for company had been more than a little uncomfortable to stomach.

She had something better than a streetlight though, this time.

Ellis.

Zoey smiled at that. It still hadn't quite yet sunk in. Maybe her haywire, teenage thoughts would calm when it did.

She manoeuvred a little; her pocket crunching. Upstairs she heard hammering; Ellis getting to work on the window while whistling, quite appropriately, 'Whistle While You Work'. Zoey giggled; wondering if he knew she could hear as she reached inside; coming up with a ball of grainy pink paper.

(_When did I_)

That question answered itself as she unfurled it, smoothing out the creases to make out the image. It was a flyer; an image of a church printed on the front and a small roadmap.

**23.4**

**All Survivors, rejoice at Our Lady of Martyrs!**

**We have food, provisions and shelter for those who were let down by CEDA. Worship His name in safety with us. **

**3 Hickory Bend Road (Near Zeigler Pond), Bloomingdale, GA**

Zoey didn't like the sound of it. She had a feeling she'd find what she did when she turned the paper over. It was the clue that she knew Ellis must have been hoping for; but she wasn't sure it was going to bring him even the slightest relief. Ellis's mother's writing covered the back page in tossed scribbles; once what might have been quite lovely script now dishevelled and desperate:

_Ellis,_

_If you ever come back, this is where I've decided to head. There was an accident on the route I thought was a shortcut and I ended up cut off from the evacuation chopper. I found this in the neighborhood a few nights ago._

_I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, baby. You were right. Just know that I love you and that, as always, I'm thinking about you. _

_Mom xxx_

Zoey swallowed her emotions at the letter. As ever, she was getting sick of crying.

When Ellis came down, she didn't say a word. She simply handed it to him, her face as straight as she could. She watched his eyes change as he read it; feeling almost as he was.

When he had read it around three times, he collapsed in the chair next to her; his head in his hands.

"I was gonna talk to you about goin' off from the mainland," he said suddenly, his voice calmer than she thought it would be. "Talk you into the coward's way out. The others are there and they say it's just fine out in the keys; that there's no zombies or anythin'. But now..."

He trailed off, so Zoey spoke for him.

"If there's a chance, Ellis, it's worth the risk. I really don't care if I'm hurt. We need to set out there – and we need to as soon as possible."

He nodded, rubbing his eyes and smiling at her.

"You're probably the best thing that could have happened to me, right now." He said, and meant it.

At her stunned expression, his face heated. He got up and turned off the light, turning away a little in embarrassment. To his surprise, she threw the cover over them both. An arm extended across his waist, holding him gently. He took her hand as she nestled against him; her head on his shoulder.

He couldn't remember ever feeling both happy and sad, to such an extent, at the same time. Neither of them were going to sleep that night; a mutual fact they hadn't discussed but were aware.

"You saved my life," she replied with a yawn, "so I saved yours. I'm here right now, without a guitar this time – and I want to listen."

"About what?"

Zoey hesitated.

(_Anything to stop me from thinking about the fact that I cause so much trouble_)

"...About you. Tell me everything; from the most embarrassing thing you did as a kid, to your job. It'll do pretty well in keeping us both sane and alert, for the night."

"Do I get to ask any questions?"

"Sure. But only after your turn's over. After all, you're supposed to be a gentleman – and no, before you even _think _about it, I did _not _attend an all girls' school."

Ellis chuckled as he moved around a little, getting comfortable.

"Too bad," he replied, a little shyly. "If you don't mind an 'innocent' country boy sayin'... it's a pretty hot thought."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Huzzah! Progress :) Thanks again for the nice reviews guys and to Awkward for beta reading it for me ^^ Hope it doesn't seem too rushed - am trying to pick up the pace a bit.  
><strong>


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: As a heads up, there's some slightly explicit content at the end of this one ^^ Sorry I'm taking longer to update these days, but I'm trying! As always, thanks for reading :)**

* * *

><p>For the first time since they'd left, Applegate had been awake – but he was far from himself. His eyes were incredibly bloodshot and although he was able to talk, he kept zoning in and out of conversation, like he wasn't able to focus on anything. He kept polarising between being calm and serene to snapping violently when offered steroids or morphine for his pains; along with telling Bennett that the soup he had made tasted like crankcase oil. He had argued and thrown it against the wall; swearing and babbling violently. Eventually, Coach, having the most medical knowledge (though barely any), had sedated him. They had moved him to a room by himself to rest up, head lolling and mouth drooling.<p>

He needed a doctor. He needed major surgery. They had pills, yes – Coach had done more than his degree's worth (his own words) in identifying the useful ones. They had steroids, painkillers and adrenaline – but that was about it for the 'medicine cabinet's' worth.

Rochelle hadn't stopped drinking since they had gotten there. Nick thought by now that she would have been sick, but she kept managing to heap on more. She would take a shot, pause for a little while to rest and take another, her lightly slurred conversation completely quelled by Applegate's reawakening. Coach had gotten up to tell her to stop a couple of times, but after her constant refusal; he had left her, keeping a watchful eye.

Bennett, on the other hand, was disturbingly manic, considering the state of his friend. He had talked in an almost violent way for hours about the smoke on the horizon which he had seen earlier that day. Nick had nodded and been supportive in conversation, but in truth talking to the Corporal, awful as it might be to think it, unnerved and almost repulsed him. He had thought him at first fine; when he came back with the news, a bag of medicine and some supplies, cooking lunch while whistling. But when Bennett had encountered Applegate, the way he was, it had driven him into an absolute mess.

They all knew why he was so hopeful about the smoke. It was the hope that it was people trying to contact other survivors – people who had lived. If people had made it, then the likely conclusion to Bennett, not really knowing much better, would be that they had some 'support' in doing so – a nurse, or a man of medicine.

But the others knew it would be unlikely. The three of them had a feeling that he was in a state of denial – hoping to find someone capable of alleviating the unavoidable; or the blame failure would bring. After all, the time was getting closer. They all knew it, but none of them dared to suggest the unforgivable conclusion.

Rochelle swallowed another shot and got up; going into the other room without speaking. Nick watched her; slender legs wobbling gently. A creak of bedsprings and a glug of bottled booze followed as she fell onto the bed. He could hear her crying, quiet but unmistakeable as Coach sat slouched in the back of the room on a camping chair; still in the same position he had been for the three hours that had passed after he had sedated Applegate. There was a strength that Nick could see was leaving him, made obvious by the expression on his face.

Pallid, even for someone so dark-skinned, and lost.

If the young man was going to live, they were going to have to cut into him. Someone was going to have to perform meatball surgery with an eye blind with ignorance; if he was going to stand any chance, at all.

"I injected that kid," Coach said suddenly, when Bennett paused his frantic chatter, perhaps desperate as well to avoid such a discussion. "I injected that boy with somethin' that could have been anythin', with a needle was sterilised with nothin' but vodka and a lighter. I must be losin' my goddamned mind."

Nick's lips thinned.

"You did what you had to," Nick said, a little more flatly than he intended. "It was the right thing to do. Had he undergone any more stress, he'd have probably gotten worse. You've probably gone and bought him more time."

There was a moment of quiet, before Bennett raised enough courage to speak his mind. It was something he'd very rarely done; being a bottler by nature. Nick noted the slowness in his speech as he took his time choosing his words, ironically sounding more sane, hell, more human even, than he had done in hours.

"I've seen a lot of men die," said Bennett, his mask still damping his voice. "I've seen women die and children die. I felt it, as a respectful man does and it hurt me until I found a way to cope. I almost stopped thinking of them as people; just Whiskey Deltas. Infected. They attacked me and I killed them; quickly and efficiently, like I was trained to do with any hostiles."

He swallowed, his voice faltering a little.

"With Ben though, it's different. He's _dying_. It isn't quick, it isn't painless. H-he's... he's just... helpless."

He was sat hunched; fists either side of his mask, as if he was trying to strike out the madness. Even though it was a time for emergency rather than sitting still, Nick still didn't have the heart to tell him that.

"He's not though," Nick instead said, lying to save grace. "We're gonna find a way to help him –"

Bennett shook his head, cutting him off.

"But what's worse though," he continued, "unlike all those others whose faces I can't remember, I see _his_ face. I see my superior, who commanded me in Iraq. I see the person who I went through high school with and then looked up to in military school. But the very worst thing of all? I see my _friend_... t-the... the person who was best man at my wedding."

He left it there; unable to speak any longer. Nick, not knowing what else to do but feeling a need to do something, crossed the room to where he was; crouched down and sat beside him. Bennett sniffed deeply with an uncouth wet slurp.

"I h-hate this mask," he stuttered miserably, running his fingers along the straps holding it to his face. "I hate it so much – and I'm probably going to have to wear it the rest of my fucking life. I'm tired of it, I'm so fucking tired of it."

He went to undo one of them, when Nick realised exactly how far he really was on the edge of completely cracking. Nick grasped his hand to stop him, holding him with difficulty as the Corporal fought against him. Coach got out of his seat; limping across the room. They held him down amidst cursing and cries; knowing full well that he would hate them now, but thank them later.

"Stop it now, boy," Coach yelled. He batted down Bennett's flailing arms and shook him. "Ain't your time yet. Isn't what your buddy in the other room would want you to do now, is it, or behave like? Kid, you have the potential to live a long time – when there's so many others that don't have that privilege. We all have it tough right now. Ain't no sense in makin' it worse for the rest of us, is there?"

"What do you know about things being hard, then?" Bennett yelled, as Nick shut his eyes. "Go, on!"

Coach met his eyes with a cold, solid glare. It made Nick uncomfortable, in how scary he looked. His intensity, in contrast to his usual nature, came across as more intimidating than Nick had seen a man in a good while. He rested a knuckle against his lips, trying to distance himself away from the two of them and thankful, for a change, that no hostility was aimed at him.

"Don't ask me that question," Coach replied, softly. "You don't want to know the answer. Trust me."

But Bennett persisted. As Coach lost patience, Nick sighed. He'd heard the story, having blurted out something similar round a campfire on the way up to Atlanta in the Jimmy Gibbs Jr. Coach hadn't hesitated to tell him then – perhaps because of how little he thought of him. It made Nick ill to think that even a guy like Coach, being nice and jolly to everyone, had nailed down his personality back then as a class one asshole so soon. What he'd told Nick had shut him up (and everyone else) that night. They had never spoken of it since, even when Nick tried to apologise the next day.

Truthfully, he didn't want to.

"I've had to give up my wife and daughter," Bennett yelled. "They're in a bunker somewhere – could be anywhere, anywhere at all in the country – and I'll probably never know where, because the army's pretty much dead. I'll never know whether they made it – is that hard enough for you, huh?"

Coach hesitated. The brick teetering on the edge of the beam was now toppling. As Nick watched it fall, Coach's voice booming around him, the first thing that popped into his mind was Slim.

"How dare you," Coach spat. "I know you're a mess, but I thought you were a bigger man than that. How _dare_ you make out that you're worse off than anyone here? We have _all_ given up and lost things durin' this goddamned so-called apocalypse, doin' what we had to do to live. At least your wife and daughter were alive when you last saw them, and you knew they were goin' to a safe place. I've seen _mine_ die – and you know the scary thing? I'm pretty normal."

He didn't go into the kind of detail he'd told Nick. He left it at that with Bennett; leaving for another room and slamming the door on them both. Nick knew what had happened and he remembered the details lucidly. As Bennett shrunk into ashamed silence, Nick recalled what Coach had told him.

Otis Redding (Nick couldn't blame Coach for using a nickname) had never wanted to become a teacher by choice, or when he was younger, a parent. Coach, however, had told the three of them that his teaching, despite what others might say about it, had actually, in a sort of ironic way, been the inspiration for him to finally have children with his wife of over ten years. Marlene (his wife and the one and only love of his life) had nagged him about it ever since she was twenty-one (they were then both thirty-two), so when he had finally buckled, the changing point seeing one of his students coming out of his class fifteen pounds lighter than when he began seven months or so earlier, she didn't take him seriously.

"Otis," she groaned, after he'd told her about it in a way he thought had sounded not only sincere, but enthusiastic, "don't torment me, baby. You know how much I've wanted children. It's mean, teasin' a poor woman like that."

Coach had been hurt for a second until it occurred to him what she was actually thinking. When he clicked, he let out a hearty string of laughs and took his fair lady by the hand.

"Marl darlin'," he replied, grinning broad as sunshine, "I'll level with ya. Not only is this'eyre man bein' serious, he wants to get started right now, if you're up for the ride."

Her face had been the loveliest picture when she realised that he meant it. She had agreed then; then two years after that, then two years after that again. When Sam, Coach's youngest was born, Marlene was exhausted. She hadn't ruled out having any more kids, but she decided to take a break with Sam and give her body a rest. At forty three, the age she was when she died, she was bright and chipper as ever. They had been talking about having another quite seriously, right up to the week the infection hit.

Coach had three kids and carried a picture of them around in a makeshift wallet his eldest, Daisy, had made for him in shop class; with the Atlanta Falcons (his favourite football team) logo stamped on the corner. He had been so proud of her for making it and he treasured it so much, that he'd gone into his own burning house to get it when the end came. Even now, it still resided in his back pocket; empty except for that picture, one of him and his wife – and a few strips of Juicy Fruit, of course.

Even Nick had admitted when he saw the picture, without a sliver of dishonesty, how beautiful they were.

Daisy, Jason and Sam. Nick still remembered their names. They were imprinted heavily on his mind. Even though Nick had no children and had never planned on it, looking at those faces had really made him wonder about what could have been. In an obscure way, he felt almost jealous – not exactly to the point where he wanted to steal and replace them with changelings – but still a hollow longing that surprised him.

When the infection hit the city, the central area of Savannah where Coach lived with his family was (and still remained) for obvious reasons the worst struck; with new cases in the first few days reported in exponential numbers. The first to be evacuated, as was always the case, were the children, and Coach and his wife did not hesitate – still having full faith in CEDA, the police and the Army at the time (although really just anyone who they thought could help them) – to send their kids away with the others.

However, the rescue mission did not go according to plan. The panic of people, poor traffic coverage and the highly contagious nature of Green Flu meant that the roads out of the city were completely jammed; the choppers still not quite yet up to the stages of evacuation – still, naively but with good intent, being used to fly in the sick and wounded to the region's hospitals. In the next few days coming, the places of healing would burst over – the pus of the illness seeping into the stricken city, shrieking and biting – unable at all to be helped due to the vast numbers that had spread their sickness from patient to doctor. The buses carrying the children had been halted to the train stations for this reason, and they had had no other option but to risk walking; amidst reassurance from the soldiers and agents in their unknowingly useless spacesuits that they were heavily armed and that there was nothing at all to worry about.

Daisy had been on the phone to her father the entire trip. She had sat at the back of the bus with her brothers and had spoken quietly the entire time; afraid perhaps that her cell might be confiscated. Coach had spoken to her and so had her mother, as calm as they could muster in order to keep Daisy composed.

In reality, Coach's heart was pounding so hard in his chest that he was constantly swallowing; as if to keep it down. His wife's fingers had been trembling as she held the phone and listened to her daughter – the both of them wondering, fearing and doubting whether or not they had done the right thing in entrusting the lives of their children with total strangers. Armed strangers maybe; but still total strangers.

The walk had been cut short. Coach heard it all over the speakerphone; as did his wife. Shrieks and screaming, before the silence followed from the children; sirens and fighting the only sounds to be heard.

Not knowing what else to do; Coach and his wife had gone out without thinking, reasoning or any sort of preparation, fearing the absolute worst but, with that as a way of thinking, their parental urges never stronger. The two of them had travelled on foot to the edge of town where the evacuees had been headed; surviving the trip by some miracle.

What they found, Coach didn't ever say. He had fallen into silence after they asked him for a short while as if in a trance; snapping out of it and continuing almost as if it was nothing. Nick, not easily fazed but then completely mortified, couldn't help himself in reasoning that it had been _so_ destructive to a man's cognition, that not only did Coach not want to recall it; but he _physically_ couldn't. The surge inside him had been so huge that his brain had fought massively against it. Coach explained to them that after he had seen what he did; he had temporarily lost his memory as his way of coping – getting to grips by listening to the news and understanding what had happened due to the condition of his wife.

His wife, since then to her death, uttered not a word. She did not cry. She did not scream. She was nothing but silent; her lips permanently sliding over her grinding teeth. Coach didn't have to speak to her or see a doctor to know that she had gone mad.

Coach and Marlene had gone home together afterwards. He had stayed up most of the night; talking to her desperately. She still had not spoken; but instead, with a blank expression, had gone into the kitchen and started cooking. Coach had tried to help her, wishing he knew how to snap her out of it and being terrified that no matter what he tried, he could not; but she simply shrugged him off or shoved him away. He had left her alone, having no other choice and had gone to lay down; where he drained his energy by weeping.

When he had come to, he had smelled burning. His room had been filled with smoke. He had gone downstairs; to find the kitchen and dining room ablaze; the fire spreading rapidly. Already, before he saw Marlene, he knew what had happened.

He looked for her anyway.

In the living room, he found her. A small figure strewn roughly over the sofa as if thrown; her expression blank as it had been when he'd left her – but in a way that would never change, no matter what would ever happen. A bottle of pills had lain next to her hand that hung off the edge of the sofa; a crinkled up ball of paper a crude origami flower next to her cheek.

Coach had screamed. The acrid taste of the smoke however had strangled it – the sound much more like that of a wounded animal. He had proceeded to shake her; performing CPR in the full knowledge that he was too late.

She was gone.

Nick couldn't understand how Coach could function, at all. To him it would be like a cancer; eating away at him, growing until he buckled and gave in forever. The man amazed him and, after that, he couldn't help in feeling a little bit appalled in how self-obsessed he'd been. He still felt it now; but vicariously, through Bennett, who had sat there in a few moments of stunned quiet before beginning to mutter under his breath repeatedly:

"I didn't know... I didn't... I couldn't..."

Nick didn't feel like hearing his whining when he had drinking to do. He often drank alone, having had a case of mild alcoholism since his late teens. His Italian-American father had always been fairly liberal about drinking due to the lower age limit in Italy, so Nick had made many early friends in so-called 'delinquent' circles due to his ability to procure booze.

"Go check on Applegate," Nick said to him, not unkindly. "It'll take your mind off it. You can sort out your problems when Coach has calmed down."

Bennett hesitated for a moment, but Nick kept an insistent, dismissive look about him. He seemed to get the picture and left; bringing a heap of tablets and some water with him, just in case. Nick welcomed the quiet and poured himself out a shot of vodka; shaking out (fairly stupidly) a Valium tablet to accompany the booze.

He took it straight, the numbness overcoming him soon after taking his third shot.

* * *

><p>He was drunk.<p>

Not terribly drunk, but drunk enough to make a bad judgement call without caring. There was more going through his mind than usual and his legs were moving without him; taking him to the only room in the house with a person in it capable of solving his problems.

Without knocking, he pushed inside with no apology.

Rochelle didn't move immediately; perhaps due to how drunk she also was. Instead she sat up slowly, taking her time; like when one performs a poor walk of sobriety in front of the police. Nick sat beside her. She looked back at him reproachfully – not rejecting the advance, but somewhat confused.

Nick didn't want to talk. He had not come in here to talk; more to feel the presence of her – the person who calmed him more than anyone else right now. He knew she had her own problems, but he was unable to help it – and the fact that she seemed to be reciprocating the need for company thus far made him react, due to the alcohol, in a way he would never normally have dared.

Before she could speak, whether or not she was thinking about it or not, Nick touched her cheek; cupping her jaw gently with his hand. He didn't fully understand why, usually having at least slight control whilst under the influence, but he didn't feel nervous. She usually made him feel extremely self-conscious – even, although a secret, causing his ego to shrivel – but now, as their eyes met, that was no longer there.

She kissed him first.

He accepted it gladly; her willing warmth wonderful to him. It spread through all of him, the sensation between the two of them amplified; the intoxication forcing the nullification of everything else that might have been before. A focus formed between them; one that needed desperately to be sated.

His hand slid between her thighs.

A soft groan erupted from her as she accepted him; her hips arching gently to his touch and with that sound, he found satisfaction.

They did not speak through the act. He buried himself within her, giving and taking; knowing he ought to fear the reciprocations of the next day but not caring. She held on to him tightly; sometimes panting, other times hissing slightly – which made him fear he was hurting her. He slowed, thinking of breaking the unwritten pact between them, but when he did, she moved against him; willing him to keep going.

He didn't want this to be all about him. It ought to have shocked him as a thought, but it didn't. As the bliss heightened for him; he was afraid of it, afraid for her, afraid that all he was really doing was taking –

Suddenly, she let out a cry, which startled him.

It took a few seconds for Nick to register what had happened when she tensed beneath him, writhing helplessly as she gasped for air. His eyes lolled as he felt it; the heat of it slaking him and as she squeezed him, he fell into submission – finishing intensely with a yell of his own.

When it was over, the silence between them followed. They lay back to back; both of them thinking about what they had done and wondering what it really well and truly meant.

A certainty was with the both of them, however, to resolute their misted thinking; that was beginning to clear as the minutes passed.

They would never speak of it to anyone else. They would not speak of it tonight and when they arose in the morning, they would not discuss it either. They were going to do, the best they could, what most adults did until they came up with an idea that would either solve or overcomplicate their underlying, uncomfortable feelings.

Pretend, as always, that nothing had changed; when, in truth, everything had.


	22. Chapter 22

_Clunk._

"Ow! Watch it there, lil' missy!"

Zoey looked back at Ellis sheepishly, brandishing another can for the supply box. He rubbed his head before bending over to pick up the tin of spam that had made contact with it. Max let out a couple of rapid grunts; as if he was laughing, of which Ellis ignored. Max had already had his laugh for the day – his bath, which had taken a bottle of shampoo and an hour and a half of scrubbing and brushing time. He sat there guarding the door of the mini-mart they'd broken into; a handsome dog despite his old age. His coat, although black, had a soft glow about it and his brown eyes were twinkling in the noon sun.

(_Even the dog is laughing at me_)

"Hey, I said heads up!" Zoey replied back, teasingly. "You've either got something on your mind, or you're going deaf prematurely. The latter I can't do an awful lot for, but I can certainly spare a few cents for the former."

Ellis looked for a moment as if he was going to say something, but instead changed his mind. He instead smiled, looking at the can.

"Tweren't nothin'," he said. "Was just daydreamin' about somethin' that don't matter much."

She raised an eyebrow, as she threw him a tin of chilli. He caught it smoothly with one hand and dropped both cans in the box.

"A might sight better, that'un," he said with a laugh. "Thought you was makin' us live offa spam for a while there. There's gotta be five cans in that box."

In response, Zoey threw him two more cans in rapid succession. He missed both; causing him to cuss, then apologise to her for cussing as he went to pick them up. She smiled, as his face lit up when he read their labels: peaches, and also wieners.

After all, she didn't really have the heart to throw any more spam.

"What's wrong with spam, anyway?" She asked. When she saw his face, she rolled her eyes. "Okay, yeah, it's crap. But its food, regardless. Feed your cans to Max, or something."

Ellis thought about it for a second and shook his head with a grin.

"Nah. He don't like it much neither. Funny really, considerin' how he's happy to drink outta the john."

Zoey let out a short laugh.

"Very true," she replied, before remembering where she'd drifted off from. "Anyway, you're not getting off that easy – I know that 'man' tactic. What were you daydreaming about?"

Ellis sighed, dropping the cans in the box. He proceeded to shift through a pile of loose magazines; the kind from the top shelf capable of giving many culpable men substantial nosebleeds and erections. However, he didn't really seem interested or aware at all; he instead was simply tossing them lazily aside, in a way that came across as avoidance rather than genuine searching.

"It don't matter, I swear. It's embarrassing anyway – you'll think I'm going crazy."

Zoey giggled. Max trotted out of the dim towards her. She scratched the top of his head; to which he let out a cheerful bark of appreciation. A nervous twinge ran through her and she shushed him gently. She felt bad doing it, in how sad he looked; but they couldn't call themselves anything but lucky that they hadn't run into something (or things) that couldn't be dealt with. Sensibly, they had stayed far away from the centre of Savannah; when they were hunting for supplies. Instead they had remained in the suburbs, but had headed into an area that was slightly less rural than where Ellis lived. It was near to the place where he told her he had worked; no more than a five minute walk. He had pointed it out on the way; a grotty looking garage that had been pulverised. The gas pumps had exploded; leaving a mess of rubble that cluttered up the street, the sidewalk and even the gardens and roofs of some of the unsuspecting nearby houses.

"It sure_ looks_ like an apocalypse out here, doesn't it?"

Her uncomfortable, stupid words from earlier. Luckily, Ellis hadn't read into them to take any offence – just as well, really. She wanted to kick herself sometimes for it, but her mouth seemed to just have a magical means of simply running away with itself. It was yet another thing that always got her into trouble; being so blunt at times that it came across as insensitivity, like a certain occasion in school where she'd made a joke about the homecoming queen putting on fake tan with a shovel. It had made her cry; black runners of mascara down her face like river deltas as Zoey grasped at straws to explain herself. She had felt horrible, having nothing whatsoever personal really against the girl, but it was_ true_.

Max's head perked up a little; his body becoming still in a full alert. Zoey jumped slightly in surprise as the dog took off into the back of the store, barking.

"Max!" Ellis called back worriedly. "Maxie!"

_What's gotten into him?_

Zoey started to follow him when Ellis grabbed her arm.

"If he's found somethin', he'll come back," he said. "No sense in runnin' off after him when ain't really goin' anywhere. We checked round the place and took out the infected when we got here. He's probably sensed a rat, or the like."

"Probably," Zoey agreed, although even Ellis didn't find comfort in his own theory. He finished by picking up some sachets of microwavable rice with a short sigh. Zoey looked at him and he gave her his crinkly, cheeky smile.

"Really wanna know what I was thinkin' bout, huh?"

"Try me."

His face flushed a little; pinpricks on the back of his neck in nervousness. His throat felt dry and he swallowed as he fought for the right words.

(_How beautiful you are_)

(_How much I care about you_)

(_How without you I don't know where I'd be_)

"I...I..." He stammered, feeling stupid. He was back on that bridge again; but this time, it was worse. He'd been at ease when they'd teased each other and even when he'd flirted with her (though he admitted to himself that he'd no idea really what constituted flirting) but he wasn't really sure how much she was aware of his feelings. He knew the risk he was taking was huge, but with that risk; he would find peace with _some_ honesty, even if, God help him, the reasons he'd given her for coming back to Georgia weren't entirely on the true side.

The prospect, however, of finding his mother was tantalising to him. He missed her so much that it damned well hurt. And it hurt even more; how ashamed he felt with having so little faith that she might be still going. He'd really given up on her, he had.

With Zoey's help though, he well and truly thought he might be able to find her.

If he did, he had no idea where to begin with repaying her.

"I think I... Zoey, I..."

Zoey's eyes wandered behind Ellis to the black figure that was trotting towards them. Ellis could hear Max's padded steps on the tiles clearly; but he did not hear only one set of footprints.

(_Something or someone is with him_)

His lips pursed; Ellis's hand reached towards his sidearm. To his surprise, Zoey, without taking her eyes off what she was focussed on, reached for his hand, stopping him.

"Look."

Ellis turned his head slowly.

Max was not alone. He looked pleased with himself; as if he had accomplished something. A hand sat on his collar. A small hand; with Barbie pink, chipped nail varnish.

The hand of a little girl.

Ellis's eyes travelled up and met her eyes.

They were brown, human, wide and begging. A deep gash stood out on her arm; but it was long crusted over. The remainder of her arm needed cleaning badly. Clotted bits trailed up and down her skin like the paths of garnet slugs, caked and grisly. She was skinny and wore little; bare but for a single sock, her vest and panties. She was covered in dust, dirt and grime; the whites grey, green and red. Her blonde locks fell around her head like a tangle of wild, yellow cables.

(_How long has she been here_)

Ellis was struck with silence. His body became completely numb and immobile. As those eyes who knew such a great amount of suffering, at such a young age, stared back into his own; he felt helpless and unable to do anything. If he were to say the wrong thing, or move the wrong way; the girl's trust would probably be so broken that she'd be too terrified to do anything except simply run. If that were to happen, she would be lost to them and even if they came after her, she would hide, fight – or worse, have a panic attack in shock.

Ellis gazed at her and knew he couldn't allow her to ever leave. The decision had been made as soon as he saw her tiny hand, with its fluorescent polish. She would never be safe out here; no matter what she thought. She had no weapons, except the ability to hide. They would smell her eventually, or hear her – and they would track her down.

Zoey was aware of the same. As much as she shared the same fears of losing the child that Ellis had, she knew also that, being younger and also female; she would have a better chance in persuading her to let the two of them try to help her.

To get to the child's level, Zoey got down on her hands and knees. The floor in front of them was filthy – with mould growing rampantly on several varieties of spilled food – and the calves of her jeans became coated in the miscellaneous goo. She shuffled slightly towards the little girl, being slow; careful not to break eye contact. She extended her hand towards her. Her tiny, skinny body recoiled a little; perhaps afraid that she was hallucinating.

"It's okay," Zoey whispered soothingly. "It's okay. We aren't going to hurt you."

The little girl was tense still. Zoey reached into her bag beside her; rustling about for something. Ellis strained to listen over the rustling, to check whether something was coming, but the enveloping quiet remained; undisturbed but for the scatter of leaves in the pre-winter wind. After a moment, Zoey retrieved a packet of Reese's Cups. She unwrapped the end carefully and held it out, offering it to the little girl. She stared at them longingly, lovingly; as if she had never wanted anything else. Ellis felt her torment; the dilemma inside her.

(_We're strangers but we have something she wants so she has to trust us take from us_)

"Please take some," Zoey begged her. "Please. You look so hungry –"

The little girl did not let her finish; for she had already grabbed them from her hand. The two of the watched as the little girl devoured them greedily; her eyes closing as she savoured every mouthful. Zoey had chosen peanut butter and chocolate for a reason. The chocolate, for one, would calm her down and raise her mood. The peanut butter was easily digestible and would give her energy. As she watched the child finish the last one; fingers smeared with melted chocolate, the little girl ran towards the two of them, fumbling at Zoey's bag.

Neither one of the pair of them said anything, or tried to stop her.

In the end, she couldn't find them and slumped down on the ground next to Zoey, her knees covering her face. Ellis's chest squeezed when he realised she was crying. Zoey rummaged around in her bag and came up with another packet. She poked the little girl gently in the knee with them, making her look up. Her tears had left tracks in the dirt veiling her face.

"Here. They were in a side pocket. Have as many as you like."

The little girl smiled at her, taking them. She ate them more slowly this time; keeping one wistful eye on Ellis, the other on a small pink lunchbox with a latch that was almost broken. Zoey sat beside her and gently touched her hair. The little girl rested her head on her knee as Max trotted beside her. He began to lick the chocolate off her fingers as she ate and she giggled. Ellis clicked his fingers, which made her jump a little; flecks of chocolate escaping her mouth.

"Down now, Maxie."

Max trotted back beside Ellis, where he sat at his feet; giving him a slightly annoyed look. The little girl glared at Ellis. He felt awkward, as if he had done something wrong.

(_Should I say something_)

"Do you have a name?" Zoey asked the little girl. She nodded, but said nothing, instead pointing to her throat.

"You can't speak?"

The little girl nodded. She raised her fingers to her mouth; beginning to grate away the remnants of her pink nail varnish. She leant over, picking up her lunchbox; tipping it so the base faced Zoey.

_Nathalie Mayhew, Grade 4_

_So she's ten._ Zoey traced the letters. They were scribbled on with biro that had already faded, even though it must have been nearly mid-term by the time...

_By the time..._

"Such a pretty name," Zoey murmured. "A lovely name for such a beautiful girl."

Nathalie whimpered a little. She sunk into Zoey's arms, where she held the little girl as she cried. The top Ellis had given Zoey to wear quickly became stained; the pale pink cotton turning brownish. Zoey held a thumb up to her cheek, brushing away her tears gently.

"I'm Zoey," she whispered, putting Nathalie's hand on her chest. "Over there's my friend, Ellis."

She raised Nathalie's hand to point at Ellis, but she snatched it away. Instead she glowered at Ellis; eyes brimming with a mixture of both hatred and reproach. It almost made Zoey jump; so sudden and shock inducing was the transition on her face. She almost felt ashamed on her behalf.

"You don't need to be afraid of him," Zoey said to her gently, still being careful. "I wouldn't be with him if I didn't think he was a good guy, I promise. He's..."

She paused for a second, smiling at Ellis.

"... probably one of the nicest people I've ever met. I'm really lucky."

As the girl's expression softened, heat shot through Ellis's face. He raised his hands up to it, feeling embarrassed as usual by his giddy goofiness. The little girl noticed how incredibly red he'd gone and pointed at him, giggling. Zoey joined in as Ellis fell over his words; crumbling back into his previous, shy state.

Trying to shake it off, he picked up the boxes of supplies they'd found under both arms and began heading out towards the van, giving of them time to talk. He packed them in, careful to pad them so they didn't rattle too much. Sitting in the front seat; he tried very hard to prevent himself from headbutting the horn.

He couldn't help feeling so _dumb_. He was so close to telling her how he felt. So damned close. He couldn't help thinking about it; even though he was kicking himself for not focussing on the much more important matter of Nathalie. He continued thinking about it, even when Zoey carried her out and set her down in the back, where she herself had lain, not all that long ago. She got in beside her and pulled a blanket over the two of them.

It was then Ellis began to truly focus on Nathalie. And, as he drove, he began to wonder where she was going to sleep, what she liked to eat; more and more questions that would never get an answer.

(_Why does she hate me_)

He wasn't her father. He could never make up for that and he had a feeling, even though she had smiled at him before he left, that something terrible had happened to her that would prevent her from ever trusting him completely. She had been so terrified to approach them, so terrified –

(_What has happened to her_)

Worse still, he couldn't forget how she had first looked. No child had ever looked so hopeless to him... so internally dead. Her innocence seemed darkened; her faith shattered.

He wanted to repair it. More than that, he needed to. As Zoey caressed the little girl's tangles, Ellis became resolute. Max yawned next to him, stretching out on the seat.

They would leave tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Busy with uni stuff so won't be updating as often. Gonna do another Ellis/Zoey chapter next, so stay tuned for that :)**


	23. Chapter 23

Zoey sat alone, listening to the water jets from the shower on the opposite side of the bathroom door. Nathalie had wanted her nearby and hadn't left her side for the past two hours. Although she had become maybe a bit more... relaxed around Ellis, Nathalie was still very evasive of him and if he tried to offer her anything to eat or to help her in any way, she refused; shaking her head as she hid behind Zoey. Zoey hadn't wanted to go in with her, wishing to respect Nathalie's privacy, but she had promised to wait for her as she showered; to make sure she was safe.

Zoey felt so puzzled by it, but yet afraid for Nathalie. She'd thought for so long that the only real evil left on the Earth was the infection.

_What had created this little girl?_

She was almost certainly a carrier like the two of them, though. They hadn't seen any sign of the infection in her, as of yet. She felt bad using the term 'lucky' to describe Nathalie, but she supposed in that sense it was applicable, if not appropriate.

Zoey had wanted to wash and bandage Nathalie's arm for her, but she had refused, going so far as to take the first aid kit herself. There was something feral about the child, something detached from society about her, almost as if there had never been a point when she was just another fourth grade student, playing with her friends at ease in the luxury they all once knew to be peace.

Knowing the childhood that Zoey had and how much she had loved and valued it, it broke her heart to be reminded of how many children had lost theirs. It should have been so simple for Nathalie, as it had been for her. She would never know what it was like, to be taught like a regular kid, go to high school, go to Prom –

_Lucky is really a term to describe _me.

That was a thought that Zoey had never thought in a million years would cross her mind. She examined the nightdress Ellis had fished out for Nathalie. His mother was not a large woman, but judging from Nathalie's size, it would fit her like a tent. It was a plain and practical thing; an oversized T-shirt with a bunny embroidered on a pocket on the front. It would do until they could find some time to head to a store and pick up some kid's clothes.

Or, maybe there would be some in the place that they were going.

No matter how hard Zoey tried to think positively, she really just wasn't feeling happy about the idea. She knew, to an extent, part of that boiled down to the fact that they'd been let down so many times, by people they had trusted and met when trying to escape the north and the military. But something about it didn't seem right. It didn't feel like a secure hold that some well equipped and knowledgeable refugees would have pulled together. In her own mind, she couldn't help feeling that it was false advertised. In fact, the fact that it was advertised at _all_ raised an awful lot of questions.

_If they were free to go as they pleased, why wouldn't Mrs McKinney leave a note to her son, telling him that everything was fine?_

Unpleasantly, Zoey knew that was easily answerable, but she put the thought of walking into a load of more death out of her head. She shuddered regardless and spilled a few drops of the lukewarm hot chocolate Ellis had made earlier down her arm.

_But what about CEDA?_

Zoey set down her empty cup as she thought about it. The flyer hadn't mentioned anything about CEDA at all. They had been in control of all of the rescue operations across the country until just under four weeks ago, the last time Zoey and the others she had been with had picked up any radio signals from them; on the long wave radio they'd had until it had broken in an attack. CEDA had been extremely strict, if not entirely shit, when it came to their evacuation protocols. Nobody was to set up their own operations, whatsoever. Any and all operations that were discovered by them were immediately shut down and the members taken by them as evacuees.

The only adequate explanation, therefore, was that the flyer was more recent than that.

At that realisation, Zoey's heart leapt into her chest.

_She really might still be alive._

The shower turned off with a gentle creak. Small feet swung over the bathtub, planting themselves on the mat with a gentle thud. Hesitating for a moment, Zoey knocked on the door nervously.

"Nathalie? I know you may not want to open the door and that's okay. I was just wondering if you'd like some clothes. I have a nightgown for you, which might be a bit warmer – and I can wash everything else, if you want me to."

The door opened a crack; warm condensation seeping out into the hall. Nathalie's head poked around tentatively. Her hair was sodden and dripping, but it was clean. Its colour, Zoey could tell, was also much brighter because of it; a rich ash woven with flecks of gold. She smiled at Nathalie, holding it out. Nathalie took it, smiling back at her. Her head disappeared for a moment, instead being replaced by a landfall of her grubby whites.

_I wish she could talk to me._

"I'm just going to put these to soak in the sink," Zoey said to Nathalie through the closed door, picking them up as she went. "I'll be right back, I promise."

On leaving, Zoey felt slightly guilty. It was a necessity, given the state of Nathalie's clothes, but she also felt a bit like getting some air. The little girl, as much as Zoey had already begun to care for her, still frightened her more than a little. There was obviously the reasoning in that she was so vulnerable but yet wild, but there was more than that, something Ellis probably wouldn't understand if she tried to explain how she felt to him.

Looking at Nathalie had been a portrait of herself. Younger, yes... but still, much like how she must have seemed after spending those weeks alone. She had looked at Nathalie and seen an image of how she had been; how she had looked in the mirror on her first night here. Her cheeks had begun to flesh out a little, from eating far better than she had done for a long while; but there was still more than a little gauntness in her reflection. Realising that, after it had sunk in, had given her chills. Nathalie's suffering, after all, was her own suffering – the fault of neither of them.

_Am I a bad person,_ thought Zoey, _for feeling this way?_

She exhaled, knowing she would never know the answer, if there was one. That feeling was her own, which she wasn't about to share. To risk Nathalie hearing that would be ten times worse. Causing that little girl any more grief with her own petty problems was the very last thing Zoey wanted. She wanted her to be better: in her mind, in herself and in her faith in others, no matter what –

She halted on the stairs, hearing voices.

(_Who could_)

Ellis was talking to someone on the radio. Although she knew he was in possession of one, being wrapped up with Nathalie and the events of the last couple of days had really worn her out and she'd almost forgotten. The sound of other voices was a huge relief to her, as it reminded her that the others were wrong, there was hope left here, it was possible to keep living, you could –

(_Why does he sound like that_)

Ellis didn't sound as he normally did. As Zoey edged down the stairs and closer to the door of the den, she figured out why. She leant against the wall beside the door, eavesdropping without realising what she was really doing. The replies were muffled with static, but she could just about make them out.

He was panicking.

"... are you sure about this?"

"Beyond a doubt, young'un."

There was a very long pause.

"Fuckin' hell."

"So you understand. We need to get y'all out of there. Been speakin' with Francis –"

(_Francis_)

" – and he reckons he got a place for us to go. Long shot, but we've some transport we can use to get up there. Tell us where to find y'all and we can get ya tomorrow –"

"I can't just leave, Coach. I-I... I just can't –"

"Whaddya mean, boy?"

He sounded very confused at Ellis's babbling.

"I can't leave without... asking her first, is what I mean."

A sigh came from the other end before the other man's snappy reply.

"I'm pretty damned sure she ain't gonna wanna _stay_, Ellis. Ain't nothin' left for y'all out there, there ain't. There's gonna be even_ less_ left when they hit."

Zoey's stomach immediately sunk. Her chest was heaving; her bandages feeling chokingly tight.

(_What does he _mean)

Another long pause, before Ellis gave in, defeated.

"You're right, Coach. I'm sorry. Dunno why the hell I said summin' so stupid."

"S'alright boy. You'd be crazy if you didn't go a little crazy at hearin' somethin' like what I've just told ya."

Ellis laughed feebly, as if there was really nothing else they could do.

"Yeah, guess that's true."

"So where do we get you?"

Ellis gave the man his address. His voice was very shaky and he had to repeat himself a couple of times.

"Got it?"

"Yeah, I know that part of Savannah like the back of my hand. Won't be a problem. Just as well y'all close to the coast. Funny really, that over the past month, we've done shit but go in a goddamned circle."

Ellis let out another laugh, this one more shrill, as if he was on the verge of crying.

"Take care now, boy. We'll see y'all tomorrow evenin'. Got some shit to do before we set out, but we'll be as fast as we can."

The radio let out a final buzz before going dead.

* * *

><p><em>I can hear her.<em>

Ellis knew Zoey was outside and had known for a while. So, when she finally burst through the door, with an armload of dirty clothes, he had no real reason to look over. Instead, he went to the liquor cabinet across the room. His mother disallowed its use, but for special occasions.

Special or not, Ellis couldn't think of a better reason for either of them to need a drink.

Running his eyes along the bottles of amber liquid, he settled on a bottle of Jameson's. It had been a gift from his grandfather to his mother when she had visited Ireland on her birthday to see him, roundabout fifteen years ago. Excellent year, excellent malt, smooth finish. He retrieved a couple of crystal glasses from the neighbouring cabinet and set them down on the coffee table in front of Zoey, unscrewing the cap. He heard Max turning over in the next room with a gentle rustle; deep in untroubled slumber.

Ellis's jealousy, as senseless as it was, came immediately. The desire for ignorance was so strong that his hand shook as he tipped the whiskey into both of their glasses as he contemplated it, spilling a few droplets of the glistening nectar onto the table surface. He filled Zoey's glass halfway and his to the very top, gulping down a third of the powerful stuff before anyone had even spoken.

Zoey didn't touch the glass. She put a hand on Ellis's arm instead, urging him gently but insistently to look at her. He complied, but didn't want to. He could only imagine the mess he looked.

"Don't have to touch it if you don't want. Just figured it might help some."

"For what?"

Her eyes were worried and pleading. The words came to Ellis's throat and kept disappearing in tiny croaks. There seemed to be no saliva at all in his mouth.

Where could he start?

Maybe he could start with the easy part. Maybe he could start by talking about Francis and Louis. How they were not only still alive, but doing well. Possibly even in better health than her. He wondered how that would make her feel, knowing how small the world was.

He wondered how _they_ must feel, knowing that _she _was still alive after they'd left her to die.

Or maybe he could break her faith in humanity just a little bit. Let her know the whole truth. Tell her how this whole disease _really_ happened. Tell her all about the murders, all about the experiments, all about what happened if you went with the military and you were –

(_A carrier_)

– in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Another sip caused the bile to slither up into his gullet, rising in grim tides, up and down, up and down. He knew what was coming. He clamped a hand over his mouth and staggered awkwardly, knocking over a side table as he made for the kitchen sink. A photo frame of him and his mother fell onto the floor, the pane splitting in two by a jagged, silvery crack. He heaved and heaved, before finally his body gave in; expelling the contents of his stomach violently. His eyes streamed, causing the foul soup that was splattered in the sink to blur. Zoey rubbed his back as he did so encouragingly, until finally he could no more and he collapsed on a chair. He heard the sound of running water; a glass emerging next to him filled with cool, soothing liquid.

"Drink this," she said, squeezing his hand understandingly. He took a swig, the vomit backwash causing him to hack as he did so. His throat burned and it hurt when he swallowed.

"Are you okay, now?"

Ellis shook his head.

"What's wrong?"

His chest was heaving; hard and rapid. She squeezed his hand tighter, calming him, helping him, making him –

(_Love her_)

– appreciate that she was here more than ever, but wishing that she could have been anywhere, anywhere else in the world than this terrible place.

In an ironic sort of way, he began with the worst.

"We have to..." _Goddamn my inability to fucking speak._ "That is to say, Zoey, that we can't –"

"I heard," she said, quietly. "I just don't understand."

He looked at her straight in the eyes. As he did, she began to blur again and he felt as stupid as ever.

"We need to get out of Georgia as soon as we can," he said. "We need to get out of the United States altogether. Else... or else..."

He trailed off as he saw her face. A long pause followed, before the words came that he'd heard but a few moments earlier.

"_There'll be nothing left,_" she repeated in horror, finishing for him.

Ellis nodded sombrely, as Zoey resisted the urge to cry, scream, or both. Instead, a shiver overtook her that caused her whole body to convulse. She picked up the glass and took a mouthful. It tasted better than the vodka, but not by much.

"I knew it would happen, eventually," she whispered. "How... how did they –?"

"They found a... a _place _in the keys. There were all kinds of things... awful things –"

"What things?"

Ellis bit his lip.

"They found out why the military favours carriers, or did in the first few weeks. The place was abandoned in all the shit goin' on, but there was so much there. Messages were still being received right up to just two weeks ago."

Zoey was speechless.

Ellis couldn't blame her. He hated having to tell her what he had just told her. It had been one of the hardest things that he had ever done. He felt ashamed that it had come easier than he thought it would. Maybe because they knew somehow that it was something that they had all been mindful of and had been waiting for –

"We can't leave yet, Ellis. We just can't!"

Her yell stunned him.

Zoey shoved the chair behind her, getting up. The feet screeched loudly on the tiles; Max's ears pricking, unbeknownst to them both. Ellis watched her as she dashed out, her hands over her face.

Ignoring his better instincts, he followed her.

He found her in the living room. She was curled up on the sofa in the den, her small frame huddled into a tiny ball.

She was sobbing.

Not knowing what else to do, Ellis sat beside her. He linked his arms over her ribs, pulling her closer to him, gently, breaking it open. He held her to him as she cried into his chest, her fingers clenching around the fabric of his T-shirt.

"I-I m-made you a promise," she stammered.

_A promise?_

She took a breath to ready herself.

"We need to go to that place, Ellis. If there's a chance she's alive, we have to take it –"

Ellis couldn't believe what he was hearing. He never thought he'd hear another person saying it. As she spoke, his amazement grew.

"If it could happen at any time, Ellis, we could die right now. It's an hour away, we can be back before the day is out..."

She trailed off as Ellis held her to him tightly. He was crying, selfish tears, but they were different than the ones he had before.

For the first time since he could remember, they were of happiness.

She was willing to risk her life for him. She was willing to go out of her way, even though the shadow of death loomed over their heads, closer and darker than ever, to fight for something that might no longer even exist. A truth dawned upon him, a hard truth that he could not put off any longer.

It was time.

"Zoey," he breathed.

Her eyes met his.

She knew what he was going to say before even he did. In that pause of realisation, Ellis's fear was greater than it had been upon any news Coach had given him, any attack, any brush with death; because in that eternity, a kind of pain would grow within him that no amount of first aid could ever touch.

Her hand reached up to the back of his neck. A warmth spread through him, his eyes half closing. Her touch made his skin react; tingling with its unexpectedness.

Her lips touched his.

The tingle spread to all of his body. His hands seized up beyond his will into her hair, as the two of them were lifted together from the darkness. She caressed him, first gentle, then insistent, then longing as he gave to her the same. Her breasts pushed against his chest as he brought her closer to him, teasing, loving and wonderful.

He couldn't remember ever feeling this way, nor could he remember the last time he'd taken so long before breathing. He gasped for air helplessly before rejoining her; her small, quicksilver tongue drawing him into a state of oblivion which he'd never before understood such an act could bring. He wanted so badly to touch her, so much more of her. He had never imagined such an act between them ever possible and had craved it for so long. Anything further than that, to him, he hadn't thought about; unwilling to think those kinds of things about her, but far from incapable.

He had never, in fact, wanted anything else so much than he did in that very moment. His body was sweating profusely and he knew with some humiliation how much he'd stirred as her free hand caught him accidentally. He clenched his thighs together, hiding it from her as they broke free, out of breath, but it was too late.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he began, apologising with devastated awkwardness. She shushed him gently, with a smile.

"Don't be."

"Oh God, Zoey –"

"You don't have to say anything, Ellis. You'd mess it up, anyway."

He laughed, as she kissed him gently on the cheek. He touched her face and she closed her eyes, kissing his palm and fingers.

"Thank you, darlin'."

"If you want me to be, that's what I'll be."

Everything else fell away as his face heated. She giggled at the sight of him as he began to fall over his words again in his usual way.

"Cheesy, I guess, but hey, least you figured it out."

He laughed again, her image still blurred around the edges. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and she came back into focus, beautiful as she always had been to him.

"Ah, I'm sorry girl. Can't seem to stop blubberin' these days."

She grinned at him, getting up. Ellis held out a hand to stop her.

"I need to check on Nathalie."

She left as Ellis sunk into daydream.

A while later, he went upstairs to check on them both. They were sound asleep; Nathalie tucked in Zoey's arms.

He looked at them both and felt a surge within him. A surge, a sense of wellbeing... a purpose that he thought had long died, never to return. A part of him that he thought he'd lost had come back; a happiness and a sense of belonging he never thought he'd have again.

Ellis curled up on the sofa, becoming lost again in his thoughts with a smile on his face.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Whoo, more progress! Know I'm taking it slow, but I figured it'd be more realistic that way :)**


	24. Chapter 24

_On arrival on the island, it didn't take long to find the source of the smoke. It had gotten more intense as they approached the key; deceptively long despite its tapered appearance from their perspective. The smoke plumes seemed all the more spectacular as they hovered over the island, rising up in charcoal swirls, or a grey mist –_

_An understanding soon came to them all that was unexpected. _

_The black, sooty fumes were closer, yes. But, at the edge of the key, deep into the jungle, there was a second source of smoke which they had not been able to see. It was harder to still make out now they were closer, but it was there; the disturbance made all the more obvious by the ash coating visible across a wide area of trees. _

_For ease of landing, the survivors of Cliff's Edge chose a spot on the beach near to the closer source. The blades span down as they landed; sending up a torrent of irritating sand grains into their faces. The sea air seemed all the stronger here; the smoke fumes acrid and sooty. It dried their throats and burned their eyes. Coach was coughing as he got out of the helicopter; struggling to keep his balance as he grasped hold of an aluminium crutch they had gotten from the small hospital Nick had found. Rochelle followed him in silence; unable to lift due to the gunshot wound in her left arm. Their wounds were broiling badly in their flesh; the shrapnel in their wounds inviting infection with open arms. Despite the heat, Rochelle had begun to grow cold; her skin aflame with fever. Coach had coped well so far; despite the fact that his wound was much deeper than her own. _

_Nick had noticed it the previous night. He had gotten out of the chopper to help out Bennett with Applegate, keeping his trend for the journey. They still hadn't spoken a word since they parted ways early in the morning, nor had they made eye contact. Coach and Bennett had been the ones to keep up the conversation while the other two sat silent. Applegate had only whimpered; adrenaline and morphine coursing through him. It was a lasting miracle that he had made it so far and that, even after being moved via chopper, which in the winds over the Gulf had not been the smoothest journey, he still remained alive, let alone stable. _

_This island could be his only chance. _

_Maybe _Rochelle's_ only chance. _

_Nick had offered to cut the pieces of shrapnel out of her. As violent as such a proposition was, Rochelle had been surprised at the warmth in his expression, as well as his concern for her. It had made it all the more uncomfortable when they woke up together sober; their mouths dry as cotton and the usual sickness accompanying alcohol abuse in their bellies. It had been worse, however, for Rochelle. She had gotten up and helplessly thrown up upon waking; her head feeling as if it was splitting with pain; her arm throbbing violently. She had peeled away the bandage gingerly to look at it in the mirror. The wound was reddish white; pus welling from inside if she pressed around it. It made her feel much worse, seeing it. She had dabbed more alcohol on the wound and redressed it, but it still felt sickeningly painful. _

_When Rochelle re-entered the room and slid next to Nick, to her surprise, instead of the back-to-back position they'd had all night, he shuffled round to hold her. A calming hand reached out for her forehead and fell back, startled. _

"_Christ, you're burning up."_

_She sighed._

"_It's nothing. It really isn't. It's just warm, is all."_

_Then followed an argument. It was a kind enough one on Nick's part, but Rochelle had been stubborn for two reasons. It wasn't just the fact that it frustrated her that simply because they'd slept together that Nick was now allowed to tell her what to do, but the reality of it all was that Rochelle didn't really want to know if she was possibly in trouble. It was hard enough going on as it was, as always. Applegate, after all, was the more important one – the one that really needed help. If she gave it a couple of days, then maybe she'd be fine... maybe..._

_Maybe... _

_She had greyed out after Nick's offering. When she woke up again, she told him she had fallen asleep and to keep his business to himself. He didn't reply and she left, feeling hollow and angry. _

_She still felt hollow and angry. The worst thing was, however, that she had a feeling he was right. It was obvious the wound was infected – a problem that would likely only grow worse in the raging heat, especially as the island was coated in a damp, dense jungle. _

_All the more reason for her to be afraid, should there be nobody around to help them, which was certainly very likely... _

"_Hey!" Coach called. "Come over here!"_

_Rochelle's eyes widened. She had been zoning out – for a while, as well, considering how far they had made it up the beach without her; Coach with an injured leg and the other two carrying a fully grown man. She realised that she had been staring into the sea vacantly, a sickness in her bones taking her away from reality and rocking her to sleep on the waves. _

_She followed them, taking careful steps to ensure her balance. She was determined to keep going forward. The heat was dizzying and her legs kept trying to buckle beneath her. She held firm until she reached the fire where the others sat. It blazed tall; the dryness of the air now painful. She coughed again, hissing at the jolt of pain through her bad arm. _

_As they had perhaps expected, it was indeed a campsite. Rochelle's eyes traced Nick as he searched through containers. The place was crude but effective; a makeshift shelter from the rain made from the sail of a boat, draped over a gazebo of duct tape, palm fronds and branches. Inside was a rubber dinghy, with towels and blankets both inside and scattered around the meagre homestead. Rochelle wondered stupidly why the survivors who had made it here would need a dinghy when the sand would be comfortable enough to sleep on, then immediately realised why with a sharp sting to her ankle. Two ants, very large ones, had climbed up and given her a couple of nasty bites. _

_Rochelle took a swing at them, aware of what was happening to her vision. From stooping over, everything seemed as if it had doubled. She swooned over, toppling to the ground with a thud as the cloudiness engulfed her head. _

"_Rochelle!"_

_The voice seemed muffled, faraway. Muffled... yet obviously unfamiliar. It didn't belong to any of the others, she was sure. Hands were pulling her up and she caught a glimpse of a boat that was crashed on a rock. The same feeling came back to her that had come with the voice and her confusion was making her panic. She had seen it before, she knew she had. But where?_

_Cool water splashed on her face and she began to come back from where she had been. Nick was the one holding her up; something she could tell by the rings on his fingers. Her legs struggled to stay stable and her vision swan before her, but she could sense better than she could before. _

"_She looks in a bad way."_

_Her body grew limp with shock._

_(Louis)_

"_Yeah, she's still hot though. Pity about the whole vest thing."_

_(Francis)_

_Her vision began to swim again. She toppled backward, causing Nick to stagger._

_(How could)_

"_She's got a fever," said Nick. "She's been shot. So's Coach, but he's okay right now. The guy over there is also in bad shape. They might not make it long if they don't get help."_

_The expression she saw in their eyes at the request did not help with her confusion, but served to make it worse. Ambivalence. They wanted to help, but didn't._

_(Why)_

_Louis spoke up, but he had already started walking. He did not look back. He had also injured his leg; walking with a slight limp. _

"_Carry them and follow us."_

* * *

><p>In all the years Coach had lived, he had not expected many things.<p>

Many had come today, however – and as he worked, fighting to remember human anatomy he'd learned in college which he was piecing together using surgical records and a dusty office copy of Gray's Anatomy – he was finding it very hard to focus on what he was doing.

_(I never expected to find them)_

_(I never expected to find a place like this, nor even think it to exist) _

_(I never expected) _

_(I never) _

_(Meatball surgery) _

Blood was all around him. Staining his gloves and the front of the gown he was wearing. The scalpel was in his hand and it was quivering violently. He had bitten into his lip with concentration as he forced himself to move on with it, that it wasn't completely crazy –

"Heart rate's going up."

Coach swallowed hard as he deepened the slice into the skin on the back of Applegate's head. He had made an impressively neat incision. It had to be at the back of the head. There had been a PET scanner, which they had used to image Applegate's brain after the seizure. Blood had pooled there. He had been haemorrhaging, as they had thought; but it had been slow. However, they had left it so long that they couldn't be sure any more what would come out the other side, whether it would be Ben Applegate, or a brain-dead vegetable.

What a seizure it had been. Coach had never seen anything like it. The kid had nearly bitten his goddamned tongue in two and stopped breathing immediately after. Bennett had given him CPR and they'd had to carry him with a stick in his mouth, head down the entire journey to prevent him from potentially drowning in his own blood. It was the errand that Coach had told Ellis that they had to do before they could come and get him off of the goddamned continent; the errand that was making him queasy, terrified. The smell was pungent and coppery; fresher than the rotted scent he'd become accustomed to, more so than the roasted bodies on the surface –

He forced the image rapidly out of his mind and looked at Bennett, who was next to him. Neither of them were trained surgeons and had only scratched the surface of medicine. They held a life in their hands and, scarily enough, were the most rightfully qualified out of everyone to do so. It was disturbing beyond measure to Coach that such an act was what it had come to.

Cut into a man's head, or let him die.

Coach swallowed, flexing his fingers.

"Drill."

* * *

><p>"Hold still."<p>

A shrill whirr cut through the haze of Rochelle's mind. Her arm had been numbed, but she could hear everything. Every tear of flesh, every burst, every wet ripping sound; as he poked around in her arm, searching and searching. The fact that she could hear it and not feel it, knowing full well that it was her own body that was having surgery done to it was possibly one of the most nauseating experiences she had ever imagined. She had closed her eyes, writhed her lips, tried to take her mind off it – but the haze of her illness kept being sliced and sliced into by the scalpel Nick was using to cut up her arm. She could feel him feeling inside with tweezers.

_I'm going to fucking scream. _

She had taken him up on his offer only part-willingly. She, after all; had been faced with a Morton's Fork. In her semi-conscious state, she had barely managed to breathe a yes. She couldn't do it herself and she trusted Nick the most, after Coach, who was in the middle of an activity that she didn't envy in the slightest. Francis and Louis had gone to another part of the facility to look for any information that might provide help, while the 'surgeons' did their business.

A clatter of metal in the pan on the table beside them told her it was over and her breath released. Nick had not let her look at her arm while he was taking the pieces of metal out of it, something which she now thanked him for. Her forehead was damp with sweat; her muscles tense and oddly cold.

"How are you feeling?"

It was the first time he'd spoken to her for conversation after what had happened. As he dressed her arm, Rochelle forced herself not to tell the truth; something which, concerning most men she had spoken to in her entire life, had never really changed.

"I'm okay. Better, I mean. Thanks."

She sat up as he slung her arm. The room was one used for surgeries; medical procedures of some kind. She did not will herself, knowing what she now knew, to think about what they might have been. It was sterile, eerily so; cabinets full of samples of things and drugs along the wall she faced. A deep shudder overtook her has Nick finished the knot. He handed her a packet of pills and a glass of water, sitting down on the table beside her.

"Antibiotics," he said. "They're in date. Take two, they'll help – per day 'till whatever it is according to the packet clears up, apparently. No need to really worry about MRSA anymore, so overuse 'em till your arm's content."

Rochelle nodded; taking a couple of the red and white capsules with a hearty gulp of water.

"I owe you, Nick," she said, still a little dreamily, "I really do. I know that... it's not gonna be easy for a while, but I just wanted to tell you that."

He shrugged, sending her small smile.

"S'okay. Hey, means I get a victory – you actually being wrong."

Rochelle giggled.

"Still a dick. Almost missed it."

She tried to stand up, swaying slightly as she did. Nick caught her arm but she brushed him off. A dull throb was beginning to cycle up in her other arm, where she'd been wounded.

"I don't want to sleep here, Nick," she said, "but I'm going to pass out if I don't lie down somewhere."

He nodded sombrely, picking up codeine tablets from the small pile of medicines on the stand next to the table. Inside the metal pan, the shards of shrapnel sat in a pool of blood, winking up at them. Trying not to look at it, he lifted Rochelle onto his back.

"I don't know the way back to camp from here," he said with understandable remorse. "I'd take you back if I knew, I really would."

"I know."

There was a pause before Nick spoke again.

"In all honesty, Rochelle... I can't stand being here. Every fucking second, I wanna tear it apart."

Rochelle took a breath.

"We should destroy it."

Nick halted as she grasped for words. In the room across the hall, they could hear a series of trickles and beeps; panicked voices. He almost lost his balance and held onto the siderail as he began their slow descent down the stairwell to where Francis and Louis said they'd be.

"We should destroy it," she repeated raspily, with mirth. "Destroy all of it – as soon as we leave. Bury it forever."

"What if evidence –"

"Oh, _fuck _evidence!" Rochelle yelled, causing him to flinch. "There's nobody alive anymore to take the punishment, for any of this. Bury it. Bury it with the lives it took. That'd be a better respect to the dead than letting it stand here, forever being a testament to something so wrong, so... so _evil_, just... waiting."

Nick nodded. She rested her head on his shoulder as they descended into the spiral darkness; Nick positioning a penlight between his teeth as they went.

* * *

><p>As Rochelle slept on a sofa beside the three of them, Nick repeated her words to Francis and Louis. They agreed unanimously, without so much as exchanging glances. They were in the conference room. They had offered to show their new arrivals all of this, but they had declined. Words had been enough.<p>

"We haven't got explosives to make it fully collapse," said Francis. "But we've got enough to take out the entrance. Wish there was more we could do."

Louis nodded.

"We were thinking though," he said grimly, "while you were up there. Trying to think of where to go, to get away from all this – places where the UN wouldn't nuke."

Nick laughed nervously.

"Still feels like a fuckin' dream."

Louis looked at him pityingly.

"As it turns out," Francis interrupted, "there is a place. Was tellin' your man Coach about it on the way up here. Better than that, there's a place we can stay there. Only thing it depends on is the flying ability of that chopper of yours."

Nick's gut leapt into his chest.

"No kidding."

"Nope. It's just gonna be a hell of a journey. Place in question is in the mountains, near Nome. My grandparents' log cabin is out there. My parents inherited it and rented it out as timeshare, but it's not very popular this time of year. Should be stocked to the gills with supplies for the winter months... if we can make it up there."

_Up there?_

Nick didn't like the sound of that.

"Where is... Nome?"

Francis snorted.

"Alaska."

Nick's gut fell right back down.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, brushing his hand through his hair.

Francis shrugged, getting up to stretch as Nick fought to pull his hopes back together.

"How the hell are we gonna make that?" He exclaimed, finally. "We'd have to keep stopping and refuelling every few hundred miles – and we're talking about _thousands_."

"Beats me."

Louis eyed Francis disapprovingly, before turning to Nick.

"How much fuel have you got left?"

"About half a tank," Nick replied. "Enough to get to Savannah, which is where we need to head before we even _think _about running away to Snow Country. After that, I've no idea where to get fuel for this thing. Bennett'll know, but I doubt fuel will be common. Plus, I've no clue how much the weight capacity is – with Ellis and Zoey, it'll probably barely take _them_, let alone a load of gas canisters – and it'll be cramped to shit."

"We don't have to make it all the way," Louis said, "only to the west coast. We can get a boat up from there."

Nick whistled.

"Still a hell of a journey."

"Well, suit," Francis replied smoothly, "We haven't much of a fucking choice, have we?"

Nick glared at him. He was starting to get on his tits.

"We could stay here."

"Ask yourself though," Francis shot back, "after everything you've seen here, is this a place you'd really,_ really_ like to stay? Answer me that, at least."

Nick could do nothing but scowl back at him, as Coach entered the room with a metallic thud, stripped of the surgical gown he had worn over his clothes. His shoes however had not been protected; a thick layer of blood crusting over them. His trousers had also been cut up to his thigh; a fresh bandage on his leg.

From his expression, they could tell how the surgery had went.

Nick, throwing away all the conventions of his personality, almost ran to Coach to hug him. He patted him on the back as Coach let out a sob.

"I'm so proud of you, big guy."

Coach nodded, shuddering.

"We did it Nick," he cried finally, laughing as he did with relief. "I dunno how, but we did it. He's gonna be okay, he's really gonna be okay –"

Nick patted him on the back again; which still felt odd, considering how much Coach was taller than him.

"It's okay, man, let it all out."

They broke apart after a little while, Coach grinning as he wiped his eyes.

"Bennett's upstairs with him now. He has to rest for a few hours before we try to move him."

Nick smiled, looking over his shoulder. Elsewhere in the room, Rochelle stirred in her slumber. They were even, or he was calling them so, because she'd also been right about something just as vital.

_Something, finally, has broken our way._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry about the long wait on the chapter - I've been really busy with uni work. They won't be regular unfortunately until I'm finished :( Next few will be about Ellis and Zoey, so stay tuned :3**


	25. Chapter 25

His thoughts lasted until the early morning.

Ellis tossed and fumbled, unable to find a position to get comfortable. The living room was cold and abstract; a reality of loveliness upstairs beckoning him. He ground his teeth, fighting against the need to go upstairs – the need to taste those lips again.

She was his drug, crudely put. He had tasted her, but instead of sating his temptation, the want for more was increasingly growing worse. He was addicted to her now and the strength of the addiction, in how sudden and incredible it was, scared him.

However, it did not surprise him. He supposed that was partially the reason why he was feeling worse about it. A growing closeness in that way to Zoey was something he had dreamt of, but was always unsure as to whether or not it could ever exist. Now it was here – and it was eating him inside; the wanting driving him to a deeper state of self-frustration.

And it was so, so much worse than he thought it would be. He knew he wasn't being helpful to himself in the current state of mind he was. Thoughts would sneak in, thoughts driven by Ellis's hormones. He kept forcing them out; every time he did so making him feel culpable. He imagined her as she was, in sleep; the sheets nestled around her body. Her curves heaving gently as she slumbered, lips slightly parted as the gentle whistle of her breath passed between them. In his mind, Ellis drew closer and closer to her; so much so that he could feel that soft breath on his fingers. He could taste her, the scent of her making him grit his teeth and clench his fists until his knuckles went white.

He was insatiable now; the barrier having been crossed. The leash had broken for him in that respect and the feelings inside him were growing, germinating into something deeper that caused thoughts that shamed him to ever dare speak aloud.

He _was_ in love.

He wasn't sure for how long he'd been certain. In a manner of speaking, it was purely admitting it to himself that had taken so long. It amazed him now how easily he'd proclaimed it when he first saw her compared to how he felt now. At first, he'd thought it was just a reaction to Polly's death. Although they had not been together in a long time, Ellis's need for comfort in another when he'd found Zoey had completely blown him away. He had needed it so desperately that it became part of the reason for his instant infatuation; his inescapable obsession. It was also completely the wrong reason to feel that way, which wasn't fair to either him or her.

Things had changed however when he had found her. His feelings, as he explored them, had matured. He had gone through a period of guilt and he wrestled with his emotions, it being so soon that he should shun Polly for another. It was for that reason, as he had thought of Zoey and his true feelings towards her, why it had taken him time to allow himself those feelings.

This realization by no means ended his problems, however; rather, it created an entirely new one which in all likelihood was worse. _Like_, to Ellis was much different than _love_. Zoey knew that he _liked _her, sure. Ellis also knew that Zoey felt the same for him in that respect. But it was a feeling that said affection rather than commitment. Caring, but not devotion.

Ellis knew so much more about her now, than he did when he first met her. He knew how she defended herself emotionally. If he ever got the guts to tell her of his feelings, he also had no clue of the cost to their relationship as it was. It could make or break everything – and put a hell of a lot more on her mind which she really didn't need.

Retrieving his fifth glass of water after the third time splashing his face, he figured that he wasn't going to be sleeping much. The sandy hair on his forehead was matted, with moisture and cold sweat. He gulped the glass down and sat at the kitchen table, shirtless and lightly goosepimpled. It was going to be a long night – something which he did not doubt. The clock across from him read a ludicrous time in the morning and he rolled his eyes, slapping his face a couple of times, not too gently.

_Snap out of it._

Instead of just sitting there, Ellis resolved to do something more useful to take his mind off things. Although as near-impossible as it was to feel otherwise, it wasn't just Zoey which he needed to focus on, right now. He needed to focus on tomorrow's journey. The route. The supplies they needed. The earlier they set out, the better – then, if all went well, they could be picked up in the late afternoon by Coach and the others. Privately Ellis, as was becoming regular lately, had his doubts. However, they weren't doubts he was going to speak of, not to Zoey and certainly not to Nathalie.

_Do this for them. Make everything count._

Ellis retrieved the roadmap of Georgia from the bookshelf in the study and spread it across the table; a marker pen between his teeth. He had a habit of chewing pens which he'd gotten through bored hours of stock-counting at Sully's.

_Twenty spare mufflers, twelve cans of engine grease, fifteen spare tyres... _

Ellis's sharp eyes examined the multiple highways out of Savannah. There were several ways to reach Bloomingdale – but he hadn't come through that way before. He was also well aware that many of the routes out of the city had been closed off, especially any roads heading northward due to the origins of the infection. Their best chance would be on the quieter southbound roads – taking the way out of the city that Ellis had driven Zoey in all those nights ago – by sticking to the swampy country lanes. The pen squeaked softly as Ellis drew; a red pathway appearing on the map. He exhaled when he finished. It took them far out from town in a semicircle, which had its downfalls and benefits. There would be fewer infected in the countryside – but there would also be fewer supplies if they needed them, should there be an emergency.

Unable to stop himself, Ellis started rechecking through the supplies they had gathered. He already knew what was there; having checked through everything with Zoey earlier, but did so anyway as it took up time.

_There should be enough. There has to be._

After the third time of pawing through tinned hot dogs, he fidgeted with the tab on the top of one of them, turning the cool cylinder over in his hands. Outside, in the distance, he heard a howl – from either an animal or an infected, breaking through the rustle of leaves from the outside trees in the wind. The quiet had filled him with unease. Over the last few days, it had changed how he felt, yet again. There were the hunters, but other than that, nothing had disturbed them. The stillness wasn't serving to frighten _him_ though, as it had done in the encampment. Rather, it served to strengthen his reserve to jump back into the 'water' – because, this time, there was a hell of a lot more to lose. There was more than just himself to protect. There was Nathalie and Zoey.

_If I lost her –_

He forced the idea out of his mind and continued as he was, staring and thinking until the sky began to lighten.

* * *

><p>The truck, fully gassed and loaded, seemed comically out of place in the country lane where it was. It bounded almost merrily down it; a dirt track covered in potholes and bumps, flecked with the odd abandoned car. Puddles glistened on the surface; blaring orange with the reflection of the dawn sun. Next to Ellis sat the AK, which jostled next to him in time with the movement of the truck. He held a hand, steadying it. He heard a clinking behind him as the molotovs he and Zoey had made rolled over in the blanket they'd been padded in for travel.<p>

Zoey sat in the back with Nathalie, the little girl between her legs. Zoey was playing with her hair, which seemed to calm her. Her eyes were closed; her head resting against Zoey's chest. The only clothing (in a non mangled or disgusting state) they had found for her in the store (completely teeming with infected) they had stopped by on the way had _not _been to her taste and she had wrinkled her nose quite understandably at what she was now wearing; a Barbie-pink set of dungarees under a denim bomber jacket. They seemed childish even for her; hugging too tightly to her slight frame, the curves of puberty beginning to show their face under the dyed, girlish corduroy. They were a marginal improvement on the dwarfing nightgown, however. When Zoey had stayed with her during the night, she had managed to twist completely out of it. It had lain on the floor until Nathalie had thrown it back on, embarrassed in the morning when Zoey had woken her.

Ellis thought of the object in his pocket, which he had taken as he left. He could feel its light pressure on his thigh as it moved about, jostling with the other useless junk he had in there – bottlecaps, worthless change and his pocket knife.

His great-grandmother's claddagh ring.

In truth, he didn't know why he'd taken it. Upon searching his mother's room for things to bring with them, he could have taken more photographs, his old bear Blue from when he was a baby, or even his mother's reading glasses. Instead, he settled on two things. The other, a single photograph of him, his mother, Polly and Keith toasting him on his twenty-first birthday, was folded up in his back pocket.

It was a reminder of how things had once been. A reminder of how simple things should be. It rekindled his hope that one day, that although things would never, ever be the same... they, together, could maybe –

(_Find peace_)

– Ellis didn't know.

While he had been writing a note to Coach and the others, should they come early or if something should happen, specifying where they were and giving directions (although he was relatively sure Coach would have some idea, being local, where it was), Ellis had set the claddagh down, to look at it. His great-grandmother was of full Irish descent, as was the ring. His mother rarely took it off, which was why Ellis had been so surprised to find it in her jewel box. It had been shoved there as if she had been rushing and he had to prise it free from several earrings. It blinked up at him from the table as he wrote; the heart-shaped emerald in the centre glistening green.

His mother would often tell its story to him as a child. How you wore the ring spoke of your relationship with the giver and there were four different ways, two on each hand. His mother's Nanny (as she called her) had been given it as an engagement ring. Her husband had searched for several days after he returned from the war; apparently running through several towns on the west coast of Ireland to find the right one. Her parents had been of a more upper class upbringing and had looked down on her for being in love with a mere soldier, so they had fought her every step of the way. However, it had not made her change her love for him, so when he had proposed to her the moment he returned home in the meadow outside the town, she had slid the ring on her finger to show him her response to his question. They eloped that very night and had seven children over the course of a long and happy marriage.

He wanted to give it to Zoey one day. Not yet, or soon; but one day, should they be alive and happy together. Even though such a request was a long time from being asked, he felt his guts twisting in apprehension anyway just at the idea of it.

The truck rounded the final corner. Ahead of them, the church loomed. It was older than Ellis had expected; the roof slate and the walls stone. A wire fence was wrapped around it; twelve feet high with a barbed top.

The gate was open.

Ellis found that eerie. The place didn't look abandoned or destroyed; rather, it looked in good condition. It was hard to tell in the daytime, but he swore he could see a light coming from between the boards of one of the lower windows. Which could only mean one thing.

They had seen and were expecting them.

"We're here now, gals," he said to the rear view mirror.

He slung the AK over his back as he got out of the car. He listened out for infected, but heard nothing. The area had been kept clear by whoever ran this place, something Ellis was currently thankful for.

It was when he opened the back doors of the truck that Nathalie started to scream.

A few seconds after that, something struck him.

As the world slipped away and as Zoey too began screaming, all Ellis could think to himself was one single thing.

_I've failed._

* * *

><p><em>They lured them in, over the course of a few weeks.<em>

_Innocent people, desperate for help, came from all over South Georgia. There were huge numbers at first, running for the shelter. Over time that lessened, until there were only one or two lost souls who wandered in; hopeless, starving, lost... but importantly, unknowing. _

_They took them in, too. They fed them and prepared them and then –_

_The young mother and her daughter were the last to enter their domain; a week ago. _

_Both of them, as most of the survivors were who they came across, were very weak; from injury, starvation and dehydration. The mother was worse than her daughter. The little girl was skinny, sure, but she had blood in her face – walking strongly forward with determined energy. The mother was a waif; once beautiful, her blonde hair cascading straw-like around the frame of her face. Her jutting cheekbones and pale complexion spoke volumes of sacrificed meals, given to the little one so that she would live._

_They were greeted with the same smile the others were treated. The same hands extended; pulling at their tattered clothes; taking them from their mangled vehicle and inviting them in to the warmth. Promises were made – the same ones. Promises of meals. Promises of protection and safety. _

_But worst of all, the promise of peace. _

_The mother and child understood something was wrong earlier than they had predicted._

_On the second day that they were there; after a dinner of the processed food that had become common fare for every survivor (but yet becoming ever sparser) the two of them had taken an early night due to their exhaustion from running constantly. There had been mattresses laid out in the converted chapel, used by refugees. Alas, of course, no others had come. The two of them shared one mattress; side by side as a mother would protect her cub. _

_A screeching sound from below woke the little girl; brown eyes snapping open in the dim. The church was black; so dark in fact, she couldn't see her hands when she held them out in front of her face. Instant panic set in and she grasped the covers, pulling them around her. The snores of the others and creaking mattress springs had quietened as the night had gone on. There were fewer of them; fewer than there had been earlier. _

_Why?_

_The same sound again. It chilled her to the bone, so much she felt ill. The sounds weren't the same as the sounds the sick ones made. It was different. It wasn't just pain. It was genuine, complete and unwavering fear. _

"_Mama," she whispered, shaking her mother. She stirred, mumbling confusedly. The little girl felt her mother sit up beside her as she focused on where she was. _

_Another faint shriek caused the little girl to grip hold tightly on her arm. Now her mother was fully awake. _

_And just as scared as her daughter. _

_As their eyes adjusted, they could make out a faint white beam coming from underneath one of the doors. The screeching had stopped; but it made neither one of them feel better, nor deny to themselves the possible reasons for that silence._

"_Stay here, baby," whispered the mother into her daughter's ear. "Pretend you're asleep. Don't stir darling, whatever you do."_

_The mother crouched on her hands and knees. Edging her way towards the door swiftly as she could, she scuffled desperately; the sounds of the few remaining men doing well to cover her scuffling. The little girl huddled up in her blanket; chewing at the wool. It squeaked between her teeth, making her think of rats and then look to the shadows for anything lurking nearby. _

_The room became momentarily lighter; as her mother opened the door, slowly but not quite as silently as either of them had hoped. She froze and the little girl flinched; but nothing stirred. Briefly, the little girl glanced around the shadowy place. It seemed different in the daytime – almost beautiful. It was an older church; not like the one they attended at home, full of stunning Catholic paintings of saints and an elaborate stained glass window (long since smashed into ruby-sapphire shards), but handsome all the same. It was all wood and wool, burnished silver and stone; materials reminiscent of when the first settlers came to the south (her last topic in school) in need of a place to praise the Lord. It seemed haunting now, though. The windows were boarded and the end doors sealed, but the little girl still shivered at a draught she swore she could feel. _

_The door closed behind her mother and there was quiet again. _

_Five minutes went by._

_Then another. _

_And another. _

_As scared as the little girl was, she could feel it happening. Her eyelids were drooping. She was exhausted, so exhausted. It had gone on so long, the running; non –stop in horrible despair. Sleeping in basements, attics, warehouse offices; places hard to find and hard to get to, but places her mother insisted on. They were safer, she said. More out of the way. They were easier to lock and barricade, more out of the way and much easier to stay quiet in. _

_The little girl didn't dare tell her that they would also be harder to escape._

_Her consciousness slipped away as her body gave in; her sleep dreamless and complete._

_She awoke to the sounds of her mother's screams. The chapel was now light. As her eyes adjusted from the previous gloom, the picture came in focus. _

_The picture of what they were doing to her mother. _

_Their eyes locked and the little girl froze in terror. _

"_RUN NATHALIE! RUN!"_

_Knowing she could not help, she ran. Hands grabbed at her and she shrieked, pulling at her clothes. Her top tore away as they closed in around her. She bit down on a finger and heard the yell of a man who drew away, tasting hot blood on her lips. _

_She charged through the doors, her heart pumping harder than it ever had. Shots were fired at her. She kept her head low as they whistled around her, like deadly bees. They were slow, wicked men. Slower than her, which she was thankful for. She jumped and held on to the fence, climbing it like the rigging at sea scouts where she joined in with the boys._

_(I promise to be loyal and strong and respect my fellow scouts)_

_A hand grabbed at her foot; her trainer coming loose. She pulled herself off the barbed wire with a scream of pain. It cut her arms to ribbons and shredded her shorts as she fell to the other side; ignoring the pain and still running. She made it to their car, battered and barely working; another shot pinging off the hood. _

_She was tall for her age, but even so, her foot only just reached the gas. Having barely turned the ignition, she floored the accelerator, screaming as she did so, the lack of gear change straining the engine. It chugged and whined as she zigzagged down the road, barely keeping out of the ditches. _

_About two thirds of the way back to her home in Savannah, the engine cut out. The car swerved and Nathalie shrieked as she went with it. It crashed into a maple tree in the front yard of someone's house. Outside, she could hear grunts; eyes leering at her in the dark. She curled in the back seat, sobbing and shaking, a meat cleaver clutched to her chest._

_And remained there for two days._


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: This chapter is where the plot turns, in my opinion, somewhat darker. I hope you guys like it and I'm sorry it's a bit short. I'll try and get the next one out as soon as I can. Thanks for the reviews for the last couple of chapters and for being patient with me - I hope these next few chapters make it up to you (and don't worry too much, it works out, I promise!).**

* * *

><p>"Are you ready for this?"<p>

Rochelle had been watching Francis, Louis and Coach for the last half hour. Their activities ranged between cutting kindling with the long, tortoiseshell-handled machete (which had been one of the few weapons rescued from the wreck of the sailboat unscathed) to disappearing into the bunker for fresh explosives. So far they'd gathered alcohol, oxygen tanks, gasoline and primacord. They'd found the latter buried under a load of boxes in a storage room. God only knew how they were planning on using it. It was a reel of the stuff; pale yellow and unassuming, no different in appearance to telephone wire.

Nick's words had hit her, hard. In truth, she hadn't even been really thinking about the actual consequences for collecting all of that stuff. A rush of what was about to come came and went and she actually thought for a second she was _seeing_ the thing explode. The primacord, coiled feet in front of her, cracked free in a pale whip; an arc of flame starting and finishing at the bunker before she even had time to draw breath. A fireball lit up the morning sky like a second, redder sun and with it, the building was consumed. Chunks of plaster and concrete flew outwards at incredible speeds; scattering out and around in a huge halo of grey.

The thought came and went in just a second and her breath came back. She took Nick's hand in hers and looked up at him.

"More than ready," she replied, squeezing his hand tighter.

A few yards behind them, within earshot, Jay Bennett nursed Ben Applegate. The young man had made – well, remarkable was not the right word – a recovery that was nothing short of absolutely _miraculous_. His condition before the operation had been unstable at best and close to death at worst. The boy hadn't been conscious for the best part of two days and hadn't been lucid for nearly a week. And now, not only was there colour in his face, he was taking fluids with ease and his eyelids were even fluttering – symmetrically, at that. Coach, now nicknamed 'Dr Redding' by 'Dr Bennett' as a feeble in-joke to keep spirits high during the surgery, had checked his vitals post surgery, shining that light into his sleeping eyes to check the motions of his pupils, something which all patients seem to hate. Some of his motor skills had been depleted, which was to be expected of course from such an injury, but to have retained the ability to have been able to _move_; well, someone had to be looking down on him.

"It just wasn't his time," Bennett had said with disbelief, after viewing the scans taken after the operation. Coach had silently agreed.

But now though, it _was_ their time, of a sort. It was their time to fight back, to rise up, rebuild and get far, far away. So far away, in fact, that nobody could hurt them again. Not the infected, not the people planning to destroy the carrion United States... and especially not the fuckers who had caused this whole shitheap in the first place by trying to find a better way of destroying human lives. In some odd way, it had hit Bennett the hardest. Applegate did not know of this place and he wasn't sure whether or not he was going to tell him. Well, no, that was a lie – he _would_. Jay couldn't lie to him about something so incredible, so horrible – so undeniably _huge_. But he sure as hell had no clue about how he was gonna phrase it to him. Applegate – fuck, _Ben_ – would probably think them all out of their minds than actually take a story like that seriously at first. When he eventually realised that they were probably few of the sane (including the remaining uninfected) people out there, Jay had a feeling he'd probably go close to mad. Hell, if he'd been in Ben's shoes, the man who had once been best man at his wedding (he dared not think about his wife, now was not the time for that kind of unforgiving, inward spiral), he'd have probably gone mad himself. Being in the army, with all the government propaganda and conspiracy bullshit aside, Jay had always thought of himself (and the majority of his companions and hell, up to a point, even the government) as the _good_ guys. The guys who socked it to terrorism, bad people and other such bullshit to save the day and the citizens of this once good, proud nation. The only time that resolve had waned had been during his service in Afghanistan, but even then, he still believed in the greater good and had looked away when violence became too excessive; carrying out his orders like a proud soldier.

But this wasn't for the greater good. Maybe it had once been; but that had faded about as quickly as it had taken to form the idea. Bennett couldn't decide which was worse; this, or the discovery of the nuclear weapons about to destroy it. Both were destructive, both left their mark on the ground where they touched, both struck fear in the hearts of the humans they were used on. His argument boiled down to two key points; the first, that humans eventually die and their bodies decay, so theoretically the virus could be buried forever if there was no life to spread it, including all the animal species it also proved potent on, which were many. The second, was that nuclear strikes left the ground radioactive and toxic, killing any life and the chances of any life for a long, long time.

From a scientific standpoint therefore, one could argue that the latter was worse as it allowed little chance of life developing ever again. But in terms of human compassion, there was little comparison. Radiation poisoning aside, nuclear deaths were quick and painless; almost as if the people struck were never there at all. The virus was created because it _could_ hurt. It was created so that rather than a cretin simply dropping a nuke and being done with it, they could watch from a distance as the very citizens of the country they were fighting with screamed and tore at one another like they were in some hideous, Roman-esque arena of sapien suffering. To Jay, although neither proved to be a proud achievement of humanity, for that reason and that reason only, he found the virus all that much worse. It had been thought up with Intent much more gruesome and wicked – and that Intent was perfectly effective in achieving its means.

Right then and there, he wished he wasn't human.

It was at that point, that two things happened.

Ben Applegate opened his eyes, only for them to widen to the size of dinner plates.

As, in the same explosion of bits and pieces which Rochelle had seen in her mind, the bunker blew to a million pieces. The carriers stood in a line before the two young soldiers, looking on in awe, but not regret. The piles of bodies caught on fire in rapid succession; pairs of piles one after another, until the entire place was ablaze with black smoke and a choking, foul burning.

"Whuh –wuh," Ben tried to say, blinking excessively from the blinding flash whilst struggling to form words. The corners of his mouth foamed lightly with saliva as he tried to get them to come out, but right then, it was hopeless. Regardless, nobody could hear him; the violent roar of flames a symphony to the generous clatter of falling rubble. Even though they had been clear out of the vicinity, all of them had a ringing in their ears from the sheer magnetude of the explosion.

However, Bennett saw him. As the others, having taken their time to survey the damage and to feel their own small victory, turned to face the two of them, he motioned for someone to help him. Louis came forward and the both of them began their advance into the jungle with the stretcher, the others following. There was no need to speak about what they were going to do.

They were going to rescue Ellis and Zoey.

And, after that, they were running; for good this time. All of them.

* * *

><p>"Wake up, darlin'. Wake up, now."<p>

Zoey's eyelids fluttered as she registered where she was. A sharp spike of terror immediately erupted through her body and she looked around, sluggishly fighting against her unconsciousness. She hit out and felt her knuckles strike something metallic and hard. White-hot pain erupted down both of her hands to her wrists and she let out a bellow which sounded chillingly bovine to her. Her hands were bound together with some plastic material she thought she'd seen police use on rioters one night on the news. It was a bit like the kind of stuff they used in stores to tag products, except stronger and thicker. It was tight; cutting uncomfortably into her skin and slowing her circulation.

She then noticed how much she was shivering, and how cold the stone floor was.

_Stone floor – _

She was naked.

She was naked and she was trapped. Eyes darting around for the soft female voice which had roused her, her incoming scream stifled for a second when she realised who it was.

The woman had soft-looking, slightly frizzed blonde hair that had begun to streak grey. She looked about fifty, although she was probably younger than that and was still pretty in her own way. Her body was bruised and beaten; one breast almost entirely tinged yellowish purple. Her hands were also bound, red marks up her wrists from where she had probably tried to prise her hands free. It looked like she'd paid for that mistake dearly. There was also a tan line on one of her gnarled fingers, where a ring had once been.

_Those eyes, oh Jesus, look at her eyes... _

"I'm sorry you came here," the woman said in the same soft voice, which sounded like it had cried too much and to do so now would be meaningless.

Grey eyes. They were crinkled at the corners.

Ellis's eyes.

"Phyllis," Zoey whispered.

_We were right._

The woman looked back at her with a long pause of disbelief.

"How d'ya know me, hon?"

Zoey didn't need to tell her the answer. The woman suddenly raised her bound hands to her face and spluttered helplessly, with a series of sounds between moans and squeaks. She didn't sound as close to crying as she was to full on fainting. Zoey tried to put her hands through the bars to comfort her but they were too close together. The woman waved the gesture off as futile, curled into a ball and began writhing her lips.

"I keep prayin' that the next batch o' people who end up here'll be the last," she said finally, her knees huddled in her bruised arms. "They never are, though. People just keep on comin' and comin', survivin' just to be rewarded with this downright horseshit."

She closed her eyes at the last word, if swearing was an uncommon thing for her. Zoey supposed it must be, from the impression Ellis had given her of his mother.

"How long have you been here?" Zoey asked her, knowing she didn't really want to hear the answer but had to.

"Long enough," replied Ellis's mother, without expression at first. As the moments ticked by however, her face came closer and closer to cracking.

Zoey felt even colder.

"My son is here," she whimpered as the breakage reached its pivotal point. "My son is here. I sent him to this awful place without even knowing."

Zoey then heard the sobbing next to her. Her own wellbeing fell away and she was left with only instinct.

_Nathalie._

The little girl was behind her. The cell was about two metres square by one and a half metres high; barely big enough to contain the two of them. She was shaking and crying, much in the same position that Phyllis was. Zoey's heart felt at the point of breaking. She cuddled up to the little girl; who leant into her gratefully. Zoey buried her face into the child's hair and was not at all surprised to feel the first treacherous slide of tears down her cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Nathalie," she whispered to the little girl, kissing her tatted hair. "I failed you."

The little girl entwined her hands with Zoey and kissed her shoulder. Her sobbing had ceased now and she had become quiet.

"You didn't know," she murmured. Zoey almost jumped backwards with the shock.

"You – you –"

"I'm sorry," Nathalie replied sadly. "I just... I just couldn't."

Zoey nodded and kissed her again. Nathalie wrapped her fingers ever more tightly round Zoey's. She begun to understand everything and as it slid into place, she appreciated the presence of these two women, old and young, all the more.

"They hurt my mom," she whispered.

It had been another thing which Zoey hadn't needed to be told; much like she'd had no need to tell Phyllis that she had known her because of Ellis. It all became so horribly clear. Why Nathalie had looked like she had when they had found her, her silence – her fear of Ellis.

Her fear of _men_.

Psyche 'Kiki' Mayhew, her mother, had been a single parent. Nathalie had never met her father and her mother had held only brief relationships while Nathalie was very young, to keep Kiki sane while she was raising her as a baby. But things had changed as Nathalie had grown, and her mother had felt that not only did she not _need_ men; she had, in fact, rendered them in her exhausted mind as a fool's pursuit and instead focussed all of her energy into raising her daughter. So men even then had been an unfamiliar, if not alien concept to her. The only men she knew were her teachers and her loathsome grandfather with his tobacco addiction and his war veteran limp; far detached from any sort of... 'invasive' relationship between her and her mother.

Of course, Zoey did not yet know any of this, but listening to how Nathalie had spoken of her mother, it didn't take a genius to know that she was the only person in the world that meant something to that little girl and probably had done before even all of this happened. It could only have added fuel to her fire of hatred and reproach.

For Zoey also knew that right now, they were dealing with very much the worst people humanity had to offer.

With a swallow and it again being something which she had to do, she looked down at herself to inspect the damage. She hurt, but it wasn't _that _kind of hurt – as she imagined it would be. The hurt came from bruises made by grasping fingers, on her arms and inner thighs. She was clean, thank God – and nearly cried from relief.

"They won'tve touched you, or her. You're more valuable intact."

Zoey turned to Phyllis, her expression twined with sorrow and pity.

"What will happen to us?" Zoey whispered, still holding on to Nathalie. She did not want the little girl to hear it, but she could not deny it to her either.

"They'll sell you," Phyllis replied, instantly and without doubt, looking at the floor. "We're in the undercroft, see. They keep us here 'til a buyer comes along, 'less they hear from one over the radio. Kinda like... cattle. Human... _cattle_."

Phyllis spat the last word so hard Zoey felt she could feel it. She continued in spite of this and answered more than what Zoey wanted to know; to the point she felt her screams coming up again along with the dreadful, unquenchable desire to clamp her hands over her ears.

(_Trafficking_)

"They trade for weapons, food and for some reason I don't understand, money. There's... not much of the world left, see. The main buyers come from the Middle East, Far East and Oceania far as I've seen. Apparently they fly in with the goods; I can hear them planes comin' in. They don't ever seem to want me though, so they pass me around. Currency is women, currency is..."

She trailed off.

The scream rose from Zoey's lips just as the door opened. A tall, sallow skinned man with stubble and broad arms was dragging a blonde man along by his hair. At his side was a Glock, well-serviced and very capable of reducing someone's face to mush. He threw the man to the ground and kicked him; a groan of pain his response. The mother of that man moaned, horrified. He dragged Ellis up and propped him into a sitting position. His face was bloodied; his lip split in multiple places.

"Zoey," he whispered, extending his hands out to her.

A squat, balding man and a skinny beanpole with an ear piercing followed him, their expressions alive with amusement and anticipation as the sallow man pointed at Zoey.

"Take her out."


	27. Chapter 27

Aware of, but not observing the activities inside the church; the two men who had been assigned the more boring job of supply looting had started on the armoured van their latest captives had driven there. Their boss had given them one lecture; just one. How important it was, how vital their own needs were, how stock means life and life means... well, that other kind of stock. Just keeps 'em coming, he repeated to them. Just keeps 'em coming. Anyone who followed got a cut and sometimes, maybe even treats. Anyone who didn't got shot. There had been six of them; they were now down to five – two of whom were captives forced into following the depraved behaviour and intentions of the sallow man. The other man argued. He didn't like what they were doing. Unfortunate for him, really.

The sallow man had not always been evil. In fact, despite his haggard and aggressive appearance now, he had been little more than ordinary. He was a telecom salesman before the Infection struck and had a long term girlfriend he was conflicted about marrying. An ordinary man he was, but he was also a bitter man; for his indecisiveness and the fact that he found decisions (since his early teens or perhaps even a little younger) difficult had often cost him. His relationship was yet another straining thing in his life that drained the vitality from his skin and put a layer of oil on his forehead and nose. He constantly stressed and fidgeted, playing with pencils or biting his nails; habits similar to a heavy smoker in their first week of taking it cold turkey. His colleagues at work would remark on it often.

"Hey, twitchy Larry, howd'ya hold that there phone when all ya do is shudder?"

His name was Larry Lewis; a comic book alliterative. He was not unpopular at work, but he often tired of being the butt of banter. On the times he brought up the courage to mention it to his workmates how it irritated him, he always felt guilty in the way they looked at him afterwards; like he was spoiling some harmless fun.

When the disease however hit and Larry saw his girlfriend dead and his office burned to the ground, suddenly decision making didn't seem such a chore anymore. His fear vanished completely and instead left him with something else. A doctor might call it madness, hardly surprising considering the situation, but Larry used the madness he had gained and twisted it towards his own survival. He preached to lost men like him; crazed in the idea that rebuilding wasn't just possible, but they could in fact do it _alone_. That money was still worth something and could somehow contribute to their future lives. Enough believed him – and enough was all he needed. The rest would have to fear him.

The man backing the truck between the gates did not believe. He was the only surviving captive and he carried out his commands in silent hatred. The others knew little more about him aside from the contents of his driver's license. His name was Chuck Bull and he was from Miami. The other man who was directing Chuck was wholly voluntary. Gareth Hynes, an all round sinewy little asshole who lived on the same street as Larry in the apartment block opposite. He was twenty four, out of a job and much further out of school (having dropped out in the ninth grade) and he had a bad marijuana habit; which he also dealt (after heavy duping with oregano, of course). He also loved setting things on fire – especially living things. It had been an infatuation since he was large enough to climb onto the countertop in the kitchen and reach the matches in the top cupboard. His favourite incident had been when he was thirteen. He had set up a booby trap in the nearby park for squirrels; something he'd tried before unsuccessfully. He would make a ring of fire around the terrified little creatures using lighter fluid or sucked car gasoline, which he kept in a glass coke bottle. One of them had caught fire and ran off into the gloom, shrieking desperately. It had looked like a lively ember; combing bright and confused between the trees.

"Slow it the fuck down, Chuck!" Gaz yelled indignantly. Chuck floored the accelerator and Gaz swept out of the way in the nick of time, yelping furiously. He fired two warning shots into the hood and it stopped abruptly. He flung open the car door and got up in Chuck's face, pointing the barrel of his gun into his temple.

"I ought to blow ya brains out, asswipe!" Gaz yelled, spraying foamy spit into Chuck's face. Chuck didn't reply, except for smirking slightly which just pissed off Gaz more. He laid two good ones either side of Chuck's chin, which immediately sprung up plum purple against his tanned skin; then shoved him, hard.

"Now get out and help me fuckin' unload, ya hear?" Gaz flicked the barrel of his gun in his direction. It glinted in the sun and he saw the other man's eyes glance it before he looked away again. Good. The fucker knew he meant business. He was being especially testy today. Gaz wondered if it was because of the tail they'd managed to pick up. Two age ranges – the older being mighty pretty. Damn, he could taste the green already; what their business partners would pay for that sort of cooze, considering the usual plain ass pussy they got through there. He had recognised the little one when she came in, too, which brought a smirk to his face.

_Maybe I'll show her personally the courtesy we showed to her mother,_ he thought to himself, smirking. _Teach the little whore some manners_.

Tempting as a thought it was, Gaz knew Larry wouldn't approve. Keep 'em clean was another of his mottos. The virgins stay virgins. Buyers pay higher that way – yeah, yeah. She had bit him when he tried to grab her. It hurt like a son of a bitch too. He'd bandaged and tried to clean it but it had gotten infected somehow anyway. His entire finger was swollen up like a goddamn salami and pus was welling out from her little semicircular bitemark.

Gaz, nevertheless, did not know how fortunate he was. Nathalie was a carrier. A normal person would have become infected with green flu mere minutes after her bite. However, Gaz was also a carrier – and, unbeknownst to him, one of only two to be so lucky; the other being Larry. Before today, he had no so much as touched Chuck; let alone spat at him. They had worked together, doing general yard and organization work for the last few days since Nathalie's bite, so he hadn't had much contact with him, or anyone really at all since Nathalie infected him.

It surprised him therefore when he opened the back door of the van and Chuck sprang at him. He didn't have time to call out for help before Chuck's teeth were tearing out his right ear. His scream was huge and (ironically) ear splitting; enough to rouse something else in the back of the van, which had been sleeping soundly for the majority of the journey the van had taken there; nestled under a pile of blankets between two young girls.

It smelt fear and it smelt death. But what moved it was the smell of spilt blood. It could smell its master. It could smell the kind girls who had given it food. It could smell their pain and it bared its teeth in anger.

Max's teeth were in Chuck's throat even before the final wet tear of flesh from Gaz's ear signified its separation from his head. Blood burst into his mouth, ill blood. It smeared his muzzle and coated his fur as he wrestled with the man like a chew toy, swinging him from side to side almost effortlessly amid enraged growls. He dropped the body when he felt the pulse go. As gentle as a family dog Max was, he was trained to protect. And now, these beings – _things_ – to him were no different than the many crocodiles and snakes he had gutted in the woods at the foot of Ellis's backyard.

His eyes locked on Gaz's.

Gaz screamed, holding onto the right hand side of his face, where his ear had been. Blood squirted between his fingers and mingled with the scents of fear and sickness. It pricked the dog's nostrils – and his fury.

Max sprang.

* * *

><p><em>The greasy looking man hit Ellis again. It was the third time since he'd been conscious. Two on the right and one on the left. His teeth had split the inside of his mouth and he was bleeding; the taste of warm metal slithering into his throat as the man drew away, leaving nothing but another layer of vivid pain. Ellis spat his mouthful of blood on the floor in front of him and coughed out another few gobs with it. He smiled up at the man, whose face was straight; but the look in his eyes was one of increasing agitation.<em>

_The man suddenly grabbed Ellis's face. He stared right into it, smiling. _

"_You're a tough kid," he said. "I like you. Really think you could do some good around here. I'm not a mean guy. They'll be fine, I promise. You have my word."_

"_Yeah," Ellis shot back, grinning at him, "but half an hour ago you said you weren't inta hittin' yer own kind. Whatever the fuck that means."_

_The man looked almost offended. It was if Ellis had said the stupidest thing; for how could he not know? A crack of light was shining through the boards in the window. It hurt Ellis's eyes and he looked away. The sight of his own blood, at least in smallish quantities, didn't disturb him like it used to. The pool reflected the ceiling darkly and was already clotting over with dust falling from the rafters. The place hadn't been cleaned; even months – hell, probably years – before the breakout. Ellis didn't need to ask the man whether or not it had been a ruse. _

"_You're the first uninfected young man I've seen in over a week and a half," the man replied, matter of factly. "I need young men like you. We have a comfortable system here."_

"_Yeah," Ellis grinned. "I'll bet you do."_

_The man smirked back at him. He stooped down to Ellis's level; blocking out the light. Aside from his sallow skin; nothing at all about his face was remarkable whatsoever. Plain face, brown hair, brown eyes. They were muddy coloured; red-ringed and tired looking. Not from lack of sleep; more the eyes almost, of someone bored. No, not quite. Closer to someone who... who had given up _caring,_ even in the slightest. About anyone, or anything. They were dead; hollow and dull._

"_My name is Larry Lewis," he said. "The two men behind me are Diago, on my left and James, on my right. They understand me. By the end of the day, so shall you."_

_Ellis stared back at him, amazed by what he had heard. His disgust rose up so rapidly, that it expelled itself in a snicker; followed by a genuine bout of laughter. All of them looked upon the young man as if he had suddenly gone insane; one of them going so far as to ready his gun. _

"_Ah, aha... sorry there, gentlemen," he wheezed, rubbing a tear from his eye. "Just that I... can't really get my head around what you just said. I'd ask you to repeat it; but then I'd just start laughin' again, which would be a waste'a all of our time."_

_Ellis took a gulp of air. His mouth was sticky and uncomfortable; hot agony still throbbing from his cheek. The scars from the acid encircled the upper part of his left arm; reminding him of how long it'd been since he'd felt as much pain, though it was far from the worst he'd suffered. The spare blade he carried, the switchblade in his boot; poked at his heel insistently as he stretched out his legs. _

No, not yet.

"_You see," Ellis continued, "men like me and men like you, differ. Where you get off on feeding people to the dogs for your own gain; well, I just don't think I could live with myself. Our lifestyles, well... I'd say, are mutually incompatible. I'd rather live like a man, die like a man; than ever become the monster that you've become."_

_Larry looked furious at first. He went forward to hit Ellis again; but then, his fist midair, changed his mind. He motioned instead for the others to pick Ellis up. The imbalance of lift in Ellis's shoulders was considerable; one of the men, chubby Diago, being far stronger than his skinny companion. _

"_Let's see if we can change your perspective, then."_

* * *

><p>Outside a comfortable old farmhouse in suburban Savannah, a large helicopter circled downwards; heading in for a landing. Infected looked up at it with awed expressions before running towards in droves; squawking and screaming. They met their end, rapidly chasing pipe bombs thrown from the copter; which bleeped and destroyed them below, overturning a dumpster and two cars in the smash.<p>

Finally, after a few minutes of uneasy fidgeting, it touched ground; the motor ceasing its roar and coming to a halt. Rochelle and Nick stepped out, turning to face the others.

"In and out," Coach said abruptly. "We don't wait around."

They both nodded, and made their way across the overgrown grass of the McKinney's backyard to the backdoor. As they had expected, it was locked, but not bolted. Ellis had left it that way, so his group wouldn't be taken off guard from behind; though it would still be easy enough to get in, with a rudimentary knowledge of lockpicking. Nick retrieved a bobby pin from his pocket and started to work on the door as Rochelle scanned the place quickly.

It was very Ellis, from the structure of the main building to the chicken coops at the bottom of the garden. Rochelle didn't need to imagine him living here – she could see it already. She could see the barbecues near the woods, his pickup full of old bike parts and the hearty meals he ate; talking around a battered old oak table with his mother. It sang of country ways and good-natured living.

She suddenly noticed how foul the stench was in the air, around them. She coughed a little, covering her mouth and nose. Two dead hunters lay sprawled in the grass, several feet apart.

She heard a click and looked around.

"Got it," Nick said, pushing the door aside. Eager to get away from the smell as soon as possible, she ducked under his arm and he followed her inside.

"Ellis?" Rochelle called out, excitedly.

No reply.

Immediately, panic hit like a bucket of cold water tossed over them. The lack of response hung heavily in the air and it pushed both their will and patience.

"ELLIS?!" Nick bellowed; cupping his hands around his mouth.

Still, no reply came.

"I'm going to look around," Rochelle told Nick briefly. Before he could argue, she strode away from him, making her way into the hall. A few moments later, Nick heard her pondering footsteps above him; clumsied due to worry. He turned left, into the kitchen instead.

He felt extremely numb. As much as the kid pissed him off, he had to admit to himself how much he'd actually missed his company. Christ, he was even beginning to get the need for optimism lately – how fucked up was that? Nick sighed, running a hand through his hair. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead, they were speaking yesterday –

He suddenly noticed the folded piece of paper on the kitchen table.

Nick grabbed it; immediately reading it. Rochelle came back down, just as his small green eyes finished scanning the last few words.

"There's nothing –"

Nick held up a hand to shush her. When he finished reading a few seconds later, her handed over the note.

"I found this on the kitchen table," he said. "Ellis wrote it. It's his crappy handwriting, for sure."

_You guys, _

_If you arrive and we're not here; we set off early in the morning to the address on the ad inside this letter. It's a personal thing I had to do, but it's less than an hour away and I'll be back early afternoon, with Zoey and Nathalie, the little girl I was telling you about._

_God speed, folks._

_E_

Rochelle was silent for a moment; as she took in the content of the note.

"It's nearly nightfall," said Nick. "Wherever he went... he should have been back by now."

She nodded, clenching the papers in her hand. The church on the Our Lady of Martys ad crumpled; the steeple a black fang across the page.

"You know what we have to do," she replied.

Nick inhaled to protest, but then thought better of it. He could say many things about himself, but something had not always been was a good man, or even a moral man. However, one thing he liked to be able to pride himself on was his compulsion to clear his conscience, especially when it meant something. And on more than one occasion, he had owed Ellis his life.

The two of them left together tell the others. For the first time, on the walk back down the backyard, Rochelle took Nick's hand and held on tightly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Again, thanks for your patience guys. I've been busy with a lot of things; so I hope this tides you over, at least a little for the time being. I'll do my best to get the next one out as soon as I can.**


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